


she plays bass

by y2kjoons



Category: Love Island (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Punk, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, Casual Relationships - Freeform, Drug Abuse, Dysfunctional Relationships, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Love Triangles, Mutual Pining, Punk, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/y2kjoons/pseuds/y2kjoons
Summary: Bobby's got a thing for girls in bands and one in particular can't seem to stop tugging at his heartstrings.
Relationships: Bobby/Lottie (Love Island), Bobby/Main Character (Love Island), Marisol/Main Character (Love Island)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 80





	1. spellbound

The willowy tatted blonde sitting cross-legged on Bobby’s bed takes a long, slow draw from the blunt she holds between her fingers and exhales, the smoke curling enticingly around her face.

Her lids droop lazily and she lets out a small laugh, causing the smoke to unfurl from her nose and mouth slightly more forcefully.

“I can’t believe we’ve been friends all these years and tonight’s the first time we’re seeing each other play,” she says.

She taps her long fingernails in tune with the Siouxsie and the Banshees song playing in the background and passes the blunt to Bobby, swaying absentmindedly beside her, who takes a less dramatic puff.

“Is it that surprising though?” he asks with a grin. “All you ever wanna do is smoke me out when you come visit.”

She rolls her eyes and plucks the blunt from his fingers. “Alright, fair enough,” she replies, smirking as she takes another drag.

The bulk of their friendship had been made online which made the physicality of their smoke sessions all the more intense.

Both met on an obscure fan forum for a now-disbanded indie-rock band.

A baby-faced, bright-eyed, 21-year-old Bobby who had just moved from Glasgow to London, joined the forum in an effort to make more friends with fellow music lovers.

He had the rest of the members of his band, Paisley Cuddle, to enthuse about local music with, but Bobby’s a people person. The more friends, the merrier and posting on this forum was gonna be the way to make more of them.

A post on the forum from a user called “sardonicscorpio” asked about the punk scene in London, which he, of course (being a connoisseur of local underground music) replied to.

That one reply led to hours of direct messaging between the two and the rest, as they say, is history.

What were the odds that they were both fans of this relatively unknown band, both played guitar in their own respective bands that were both located in the same city and they were both the same age?

It was as if the stars had aligned to make way for something really beautiful.

The stars could only align so much though, seeing as she lived all the way in Australia.

 ** _so you live in melbourne_** _,_ he messaged her about a month into their online friendship.

**_but the rest of your band’s in the uk??? the musicians that bad down under lozza?_ **

**_har har har_** _,_ she replied.

 **_we met on a different forum_ ** _. **the other members all knew each other b4 they knew me**_

**_just so happens their guitarist quit and i already had friends in the uk that let me stay with them when i visit so i took this as some kind of sign_ **

**_i gave it a shot and sent the girls some videos of me playing and i was in_** **😈** **💅🏻** **✨**

**_we do most of our writing and recording over skype and whenever i visit, we practice irl and do small gigs here and there_ **

_**lmk when ur in town next time!** _he responded. **_wld be ace if we could hang_**

 ** _funny you say that_** _,_ she replied. **_i’ll actually be flying in for a bit of practice next week._**

**_maybe i could swing your way while im up there x_ **

The week of, Lottie showed up at his front door with a record player, a copy of The Cure’s Disintegration on vinyl, and a lot of weed.

Like way too much for two people to smoke in an afternoon.

“Huh,” she remarked cocking her head to the side as she stood in the threshold. “Figures you’d be cuter in person. Come on,” she said as she grabbed his hand and let herself inside. “Music sounds way better stoned.”

Bobby, far too stunned to say anything clever back, led her to his room.

Thus, begun their tradition of sitting in his room and getting baked while listening to music whenever she was in London.

She recently decided it was time to get serious about this whole band thing and made the move there permanently. That meant more practice and more frequent smoke sessions.

Today’s smoke session, however, was special.

A promoter for a big club in the city heard Lottie’s band playing a small local show and booked them a gig.

The same club promoter heard Bobby’s band, Paisley Cuddle, playing at a totally different show and booked them for the same night as Lottie’s band. Making it the first time either have seen the other’s band play live.

How convenient. Perhaps the stars were making up for lost time.

Bobby hits the blunt again, letting the cloud of cannabis roll comfortably over his face.

“What’s your band called again?” he asks, feigning forgetfulness and passing the blunt her way once more. “Bouillabaisse or something?”

She sluggishly throws a pillow at him which he attempts to catch in mid-air, but instead ends up batting awkwardly towards her. She slowly dodges, but not without mussing her hair a bit. She snickers.

“Quit messing, Bobs, you know we’re Beelzebabe.” She takes another hit and shakes her hair back into place with her free hand. “Really, though, I’m excited for tonight. This is huge for both of us.”

They sit together in comfortable silence, the only sound coming from the music.

Bobby feels as if he’s floating. The thumping bass riff paired with the repetition of the lyrics sends him further into a state of blissful haziness.

_Following the footsteps_

_Of a ragdoll dance_

_We are entranced_

_Spellbound_

He stares up at the ceiling. All of his senses melt together. He wishes he could take a picture of this moment and live in it forever. He just feels so _good_. So unbelievably good.

_Spellbound_

_Spellbound_

_Spellbound_

Time passes by imperceptibly before either one of them speaks up again.

“Fantastic idea getting high right before your first big show, Lotsa.” Bobby says. “Galaxy brain shit right there,” he adds, tapping the side of his temple with his pointer finger.

She elbows him playfully. “Fuck off, it’s not like I’m the only one getting high before a huge show.”

“Besides, it’s not for another couple hours…and I needed something to take the edge off.”

Her facetious attitude is undercut by the hint of vulnerability in her tone. She notices the atmosphere shift and returns to rhythmically tapping her fingernails.

“I know you, Lottie. You never fail at something you put your mind to,” Bobby says in an attempt to comfort his friend. “You’re gonna crush it tonight, I’m sure of it.”

“Aww, thanks Bobs,” Lottie responds, gazing into his eyes. “Can’t wait to see you crush it, too.”

She cracks a smile, which soon turns into small shudders of laughter.

“Look at us,” she breathes out, shaking her head. “A couple of proper melts.”

“Jesus, this place is crowded,” Gary remarks, looking on from the bar at the squished onslaught of people clamoring towards the stage in an effort to get closer to the band playing.

“I knew some big acts were headlining, but I didn’t think it would get packed like this,” he murmurs into the lip of his beer bottle.

“Ain’t our usual scene, that’s for sure,” mutters Noah, patting at the sweat forming on his brow with the collar of his shirt as he surveys the ever-growing crowd.

“Who’re they anyway?” Gary asks, taking a swig from his beer. “I know they’re some huge group, I recognize the drummer, but I can’t remember the name for the life of me-”

“Seventh Heaven,” calls out an Irish-accented man’s voice.

Rocco shuffles his way towards them through the crowd with his guitar in tow, huge shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “I’ve got a mutual friend who did a show with them once before they blew up. Says the drummer was sound, but the rest of them were proper knobs.”

“You’re _late_ ," Noah says, pointedly side-eyeing Rocco. “Where have you been?”

Rocco smirks and inhales sharply like he’s about to delve into some long-winded story that absolutely no one asked for. Yeah, no, that’s exactly what he’s about to do.

“Right, so I’m booking it to the venue, got my guitar case in my hand, just trying to make my way to the front door. Huge line, shit-ton of people, but not like that’s gonna stop me!” He gesticulates wildly as Noah’s expression grows more impatient.

“So I’m pushing my way through the crowd, practically knocking everyone over – my case is massive, how could I not – and literally the _second_ I get in, I hear this girl like ‘Oh my god, you play guitar?! Are you in a band? That’s _soooooo hot!’_ and I look up and lock eyes with this fit bird in this skin-tight Seventh Heaven tee – and I mean she’s _well fit_. Cute face, cracking body, MASSIVE-”

“ _The abridged version!_ ” Noah hisses, cutting off Rocco’s speech as he gestures towards his chest. “Christ’s sake.”

Rocco flushes and coughs before regaining his composure. “Right. Long story short, the line was long and I met a Seventh Heaven groupie.”

Noah and Gary just…look at him.

“Okay,” Gary pipes in. “And…?”

Rocco gapes at him like he’s just asked the stupidest shit ever.

“Whaddaya mean ‘And?’” he says, rolling his eyes and tousling his curly hair. “We had sex. Obviously. The acoustics in the bathroom are top notch by the way-”

“You mean to tell me,” Noah cuts him off, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes tight, in a state of pure, unadulterated disbelief.

“That while we were prepping for the biggest gig we’ve scored in ages, you were busy _getting your dick wet?_ ” He practically spits out those last few words. “ _You really couldn’t keep it in your pants for one night?_ ”

Rocco has nothing to offer but a shrug and a hair flip. “Had you seen the knockers on this one, you wouldn’t’ve blamed me,” he says indifferently. 

“You are _so_ goddamn lucky we need two guitars,” Noah groans.

Under normal circumstances, Bobby would be rife with all manner of jokes and japes, but all he can do is clutch his phone and tap his leg anxiously. Gary takes notice instantly.

“Oi,” he nudges Bobby discreetly, the other two boys far too embroiled in their own ~~argument~~ actively escalating conversation to even notice.

“You doin’ alright, mate? Not like you to get nervous before a show.”

“Yeah,” Bobby shakes his head as if to snap himself out of his nerves. “I mean, I think I am?”

He sighs and runs his fingers through his dreads. “I told you earlier my friend would be watching us. I should be buzzing, right? It’s her first time seeing us in action, and I guess I just don’t wanna fuck it up. I can’t let her down.”

Gary nods solemnly. He mulls over his next words before speaking.

“I’ve known you a long time, bruv, and if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you couldn’t let someone down even if you tried,” he takes another long sip from his beer before continuing.

“Besides, she’s friends with you, she can’t have good taste, can she?” he shrugs.

Bobby chuckles. “Piss off,” he replies, feeling a small weight lifted from his chest, thankful for his friend’s reassurance. Before he can say anything else, he feels his phone buzz in his hand.

He unlocks it to a message from Lottie:

## Lotta🔮💫

Lotta 🔮💫

####  **Yesterday,** 8:13 PM 

    You are a dear friend of mine and that is why i need to tell you to never wear that shirt again

Bobby
    Okay but consider this
    No❤️️

####  **Today,** 11:21 PM 

Lotta🔮💫
    blzb’s next!! if ik u, ur still dicking around @ the bar w/ur boys 😪

Lotta🔮💫
    

_Alright, ya got me there,_ he thinks. His phone buzzes with another message.

## Lotta🔮💫

Lotta 🔮💫

####  **Today,** 11:21 PM 

    blzb’s next!! if ik u, ur still dicking around @ the bar w/ur boys 😪

####  **Today,** 11:22 PM 

    get ur arse up near the stage!! my tea leaves are telling me tonight’s gna be a massive success and it wont be the same if i dont get to see the look on ur face when we’re on 😈
    i better see u upfront x🤘🏻 🎸

“We oughta make our way up to the stage then, yeah?”

Bobby jumps suddenly at the closeness of Gary’s voice near his ear. He turns around to see all three of the guys craning their necks over his shoulders to read his messages.

“You lot done being nosy?” Bobby remarks. He tucks his phone in his back pocket and gets up from his stool. “We’ve got ourselves a crowd to fight through, boys.”

Or not fight through? Making a dent in the crowd wasn’t hard with Gary in tow, the absolute unit. He parts the mass of people like the Red Sea with relative ease and the rest of the boys follow his path before the gaps can fill in again.

Seventh Heaven end their set to thunderous applause as the Paisley Cuddle boys make their way closer to the stage.

A young-looking guy with blue hair steps onto the stage as Seventh Heaven starts packing up their gear, stopping occasionally to wave at fans.

“Alright, let’s hear it one more time for Seventh Heaven!” the blue-haired man yells into his microphone. Everyone in the crowd fucking loses it.

_“WE LOVE YOU SEVENTH HEAVEN!”_

_“SIGN MY TITS, DAN!”_

_“MASON, LEMME EAT THAT ASS!”_

Someone launches something fabric at the stage right before the band finishes hauling their stuff backstage. The guy with blue hair ducks as it lands behind him.

“How’re we gonna top that?” Noah shouts over the cacophonous noise, worry creasing his brow.

Blue-haired dude picks up the fabric and shakes it open to reveal a pair of lacy underwear that looked far too expensive for someone to just be throwing around. Whooping and whistling from onlookers ensues as the club promoter's cheeks grow red.

“No use worrying,” Gary yells back. “We’ve made it this far, can’t get too in our heads about it now.”

He doesn’t sound fully convinced of his own advice, but nobody else is offering any words of wisdom.

The applause finally starts to die down as blue-haired dude tosses the underwear somewhere offstage and continues talking.

“This next act of gorgeous up-and-comers are called Beelzebabe. Make some noise!”

Everyone claps and cheers as four girls, all unnaturally attractive in their own right, take the stage with their instruments.

Bobby catches Lottie’s eye and lets out a loud, “Hell yeah, that’s my best friend up there!” which is met with a handful of loud, scattered _woooos!_ from other concertgoers and a smile from Lottie as she plugs her guitar to her amp.

Bobby takes the opportunity to quickly survey the other Beelzebabe members as they take their places.

The statuesque girl with box braids adjusts her mic. She doesn’t have any other instrument on her, so Bobby assumes she’s the lead singer.

He couldn’t imagine the voice of someone fronting a rock band coming out of her, so Bobby was curious to hear how her singing paired with the music.

The singer leans over to say something to the buxom, bespectacled brunette behind the drums who’s currently putting her hair in a messy ponytail.

She nods at whatever the singer says and readies her drumsticks.

Finally, he turns his focus to the bassist.

Bad idea.

Now the only thing he can do is focus on the bassist.

He’s drawn first to her long silver hair, shimmering under the stage lights, juxtaposed by her light brown skin adorned with various tattoos.

She intently plucks the strings of her electric bass before connecting it to the amplifier.

The drummer says something inaudible to her that makes her laugh incredibly hard.

The way her eyes crease and her nose scrunches makes Bobby’s heart skip a beat.

The way she throws her head back as she shakes with laughter make his heart skip another beat.

 _Wouldn’t it be something if a girl’s laugh sent me into cardiac arrest?_ he thought. _Melt._

All the girls give each other a thumbs up before the singer takes to the mic stand.

“We’re Beelzebabe and this one’s called ‘Bad Bitch Manifesto’.”

The drummer counts off _2,3,4!_ and “Bad Bitch Manifesto” kicks off with a speedy, thrumming bass riff.

If Bobby didn’t have a crush before, ooh boy, did he have one now.

He’s mesmerized by the speed and agility with which she glides across the fretboard, nimble fingertips dancing up and down the strings.

She seems to play her brief solo almost _too_ easily, cheeky smirk etched on her face the entire time like she’s playing some kind of game and winning.

The other instruments join in, equally energetic, and the crowd’s immediately jumping.

Once the other members have gotten into a good rhythm, the singer finally launches into the vocals.

She has a melodic, almost operatic voice which would usually clash with the raucous instrumentals, but somehow just…works.

Every element of their performance is straight up _powerful_. And the crowd is just lapping that shit up.

Lottie wasn’t fucking around; they’re _good_. Really good.

And it didn’t hurt that they were all stunning. _Especially_ that bloody bass player. God, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of her.

Her hair bounces around her in a glistening halo as she becomes more engrossed in the song. She starts swaying her hips wildly to the beat.

“ _Fuckin’ hell,_ ” Bobby sighs in a way that would have been entirely audible if not for the blaring music. The way she moves her body is incredibly unfair _._ It shouldn’t be possible for someone to look that good and move like that all whilst holding their own on an instrument.

“That’s your friend Lottie, yeah?” Gary asks loudly, snapping Bobby out of his train of thought.

“The blonde one?” he asks, pointing at Lottie who’s just started her own guitar solo.

“Yeah, that’s her,” Bobby responds. He’s not all too focused on Lottie at the moment. The realization of which makes him feel the slightest twinge of guilt.

Only a little bit though.

He’s still very much lasered in on the bassist and enjoying the hell out of the view.

“She’s fuckin’ shredding on that guitar, bruv.” Gary cocks his head slightly as he gazes at Lottie who, by the way, is absolutely killing her solo with inhuman speed.

Looks like Gary’s fascinated by a certain someone in a band, too.

“She’s proper fit, innit? You mean to tell me you’ve never even _thought_ about…? You know?”

Bobby’s eyes widen when he realizes what Gary’s implying.

“Dude?! No!”

Yes. Many times. So many times. The unmistakably flirtatious nature of his and Lottie’s friendship was not lost on him.

Also, hot goth girls were his weakness.

“Nothing there at all, swear on me mum,” he answers.

It is unknown why he would lie on his mother’s name like that.

Gary holds his hands up in mock defense.

“Alright, meant no disrespect by it. Just wanted to see if there was any blood flowing there before I approach her.” He says nothing more and resumes bobbing along to the music.

Beelzebabe continue their set, each song more gut-wrenchingly raw and aggressive than the last.

And every time, the bassist steals the show. At least in Bobby’s eyes.

God, he can’t seem to stop staring at her.

He’s fixated.

Enraptured.

He’s listening intently to Beelzebabe’s performance and loving every note that spills out from the speakers.

But in the back of his head, all he can hear is the last repetitious verse of the Siouxsie song he listened to all those hours ago in his bedroom when he was getting stoned with Lottie.

_We are entranced, entranced, entranced, entranced, entranced, entranced, entranced._

It takes him a moment to realize she caught him staring quite some time ago. The entire time, she has been staring back without missing a beat on her guitar.

_Fuck, she probably thinks I’m a creep, quick do something._

And in one, fleeting, all too perfect moment that seems to happen in bullet time, she darts her tongue out from between her plush lips and pokes it mischievously in his direction.

As if that weren’t enough to make his brain short circuit, she sends a curt wink flying his way that shoots straight through his rapidly beating heart.

_Spellbound_

_Spellbound_

_Spellbound_

His face is _hot_. He must be blushing like mad right now. No, he’s definitely turned bright red, the smile that spreads across her face before she breaks eye contact says everything. 

_Spellbound_

_Spellbound_

_Spellbound_

Beelzebabe breezes through their set and before he knows it, they’re approaching their final song.

“We’re about to wind this thing down,” the singer says softly into the microphone, very clearly out of breath but still in her element. “But we’ve got one more for the road. This is ‘Swan Song’.”

The band starts playing a subdued, chill melody that starts off way more mellow than the previous songs. The singer harmonizes softly.

Gradually enough that it’s barely noticeable, the pace and the intensity of the music start to crescendo as Beelzebabe’s frontwoman’s singing remains static.

The audience grows antsy, they want _more._

Just when the music seems to reach its peak, all the members stop in perfect unison.

The crowd is brought to a hush as everyone awaits their next move.

In a fraction of a second, the singer’s expression shifts from one of serenity to one of pure rage as she drops her previously cool demeanor.

“ **LET’S GOOOOO!** ” she yells. The whole venue erupts in response. 

The girls start to go fucking ballistic on their instruments, swinging themselves around recklessly across the stage like their lives depend on it.

The crowd follows suit, jumping enthusiastically. Every wall of the club shakes from the noise. 

And as if this weren’t enough.

“COME THE FUCK UP FRONT!” the singer wails into the microphone, all traces of her naturally lilting vocal cadence diminished. “I WANNA SEE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS OPEN UP THIS PIT! **_RIGHT! NOW!_** ”

Chaos ensues.

The girls shred on their instruments as hard as they can with every remaining ounce of energy they’ve got left as the singer’s request to “come the fuck up front” rings out across the venue.

A throng of people high on loud music, adrenaline, and heaven only knows what other ungodly concoction of substances rush to the front.

Those not trying to get caught in the fray instinctively take many steps backwards.

“We moshing tonight, lads?” Bobby asks, practically bouncing. He’s a plank’s length away from throwing himself in the pit. Feels like forever since he’s last properly moshed and he’s buzzing. He can feel the music pulsating through his veins and all he wants to do is thrash.

“I’m sitting this one out,” Rocco cries out, clutching his encased guitar protectively. Noah nods in silent agreement.

Bobby turns to Gary. “You in, mate? Or am I goin’ it alone?”

He asks this mostly as a formality, he’s gonna mosh either way.

Gary looks skeptically at the sea of people jostling around in the pit in front of them and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good to go. I’ll be right here when you’re ready though.”

Without a second thought, Bobby throws himself into the cyclone of human bodies.

It’s a mass of flailing limbs and whipping hair and pushes and shoves being thrown from all sides and it’s the most alive and powerful he’s felt in forever.

He elbows and shoves and spins, sweat dripping down his face all the while.

 _This is what it’s all about._ The music courses through his body as he jostles his way through the pit. _This feeling right here is the best feeling in the world._

About halfway through the song, he feels a strong arm grip his and pull him out of the pit, effectively killing his high.

“What-“ he starts.

“Sorry, mate!” he hears Gary yell out once they’re both fully extracted from the chaos. “Stagehand said we’re up in ten, so we’ve gotta get a move on.”

They reluctantly make their way to Noah and Rocco as Beelzebabe let out one final booming note.

The crowd is a deafening roar as the girls all catch their breath and say their farewells.

The other guys are tuning their instruments and warming up backstage.

Bobby’s tried to do the whole warm up thing, but all he can do is pace.

He thought he was okay, tried to convince himself that nerves were bullshit, but no dice.

His stomach’s in knots. Fucking this up is not an option. Especially now that they’ve got that last performance to follow up after.

“I’m stepping out for a sec, need to clear my head,” he calls out to the other members.

“Alright, just be back before setup,” Noah returns.

Bobby nods and ducks into a nearby hallway.

He starts towards a quiet area where some of the crew are conversing among themselves.

He leans against a wall and before he can so much as exhale, he sees a gray blur rush past him. The blur stops in its tracks almost as soon as it passes him and turns around.

It’s her. The bassist.

His heart’s running a mile a minute, he’s almost scared she can see it beating out of his chest.

She grins and walks in his direction.

_Wait a minute, is she actually headed towards me? Why? Is she confused? Or lost? What? The fuck?_

“Hey, wait, I recognize you!” she calls out. Her American accent hits him like a fucking freight train.

He instinctively points at himself, quirking an eyebrow as if to say _who, me?_

 _Of course she means you!_ he thinks. _Colossal dumbass!_

She nods.

“Hey, Stranger!” she continues once she’s gotten close enough. “I saw you during our set. Looked like you were having a blast.”

He’s speechless. She remembered him? She _approached_ him?

_Say something, you prick._

“Yup, that was me,” his voice cracks slightly. He coughs in an attempt to cover it up.

 _You couldn’t say something better?_ he berates himself. _Why, why, why, why, why-_

“You’re backstage now, so you must be performing soon, right?” she tilts her head a little, causing the light to hit her dark eyes in a way that makes Bobby’s pulse quicken more than he thought possible.

“Y-yeah. I sing and play rhythm guitar in Paisley Cuddle. We’re up next.”

Her eyes light up in recognition. “Oh, Paisley Cuddle! You’re Lottie’s friend, right? Sick!” she smiles widely.

What he wouldn’t give to make her smile like that again.

“What’s your name? Lottie told me earlier, but my memory’s so shit, sorry ‘bout that.” She looks at him expectantly.

“Uh-”

“Oi! Freckles!” a disgruntled stagehand yells from the end of the hallway before Bobby can tell the bassist his name. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Paisley Cuddle’s up! Get the fuck onstage.”

The bassist rolls her eyes. “Look, don’t sweat it. Catch me after the show?” she asks, walking backwards slowly awaiting his response.

“Yeah,” he answers, bolstered with a sense of newfound courage. “Yeah, I will.”

“I’ll be holding you to that,” she says as she turns around. “Good luck! Knock ‘em dead, Stranger!” She throws a wave over her shoulder and bounds off.

Bobby’s not sure if this little encounter cleared his head or made his thoughts more muddled, but he’s sure not going to be complaining about it anytime soon.

“This next act might sound soft, but don’t let their name fool you; this ain’t your nan’s band!” the blue-haired club promoter announces. “Let’s hear it for Paisley Cuddle!”

The crowd lets out a more hyped applause than Bobby anticipated, presumably still pumped from Beelzebabe’s performance.

Pick in one hand, guitar at the ready, and as confident as he thinks he’ll ever be, Bobby grips the mic with his free hand.

_Alright, let’s do this._

“We’re Paisley Cuddle, this one’s ‘Chronic Dumbass’.”

He nods in Gary’s direction. Gary nods back and counts off with his drumsticks.

Bobby and Rocco lead with their guitars, working rapidly in tandem with one another. Noah and Gary jump in with bass and percussion.

A couple of people in the crowd cheer loudly as they get a good rhythm going.

_So far, so good._

Bobby, still strumming spiritedly, starts singing into the mic.

_“Wish I could work out how you make me feel_

_Tried to tell myself it wasn’t such a big deal,”_

He gives the crowd a quick once-over as he sings the next few lines. Everybody seems to be enjoying it, actively dancing along.

_“My head is hazy, I’ve forgotten how to speak_

_It’s crazy how one look from you_

_Can make me oh so weak”_

He can’t fight the smile that creeps onto his face as he looks out at the sea of people straight up just vibing to the song he wrote.

_“I can’t explain it, you’re killin’ me, love_

_Doc reads the diagnosis, says_

_Looks like you’ve got a case of_

_Chronic dumbass_

_I’m a fool for you_

_You’ve got me all shook up,_

_So, what am I to do?_

_Maybe someday you might let me in_

_I really think that you could be my medicine”_

“YOU’RE CRUSHING IT, BESTIE!” he hears a woman yell.

He looks up to see Lottie in the middle of the crowd, dancing enthusiastically to the beat.

Briefly glancing next to her, he sees the singer. She’s nodding along politely, swaying side to side, eyes locked on one target onstage.

He follows her line of sight to see where she’s looking; directly at Noah. The drummer, who Bobby didn’t even notice standing next to the singer until now, whispers something to her that makes her eyes go wide.

The flustered look on her face and the doubled-over laughter of the drummer make Bobby think that somebody’s got a crush on a certain brooding bassist.

Speaking of crushes on bassists, he doesn’t see her standing with the rest of the band.

He knows he shouldn’t, but he scans the audience for her.

His eyes find hers as he starts singing the chorus a second time around, hanging towards the back of the venue away from the bulk of the crowd.

And to his surprise, she’s not dancing.

She’s not cheering or even bobbing her head.

She’s beaming up at him as he performs – just as he did with her.

Maybe it’s his loopy, delusional, hopped-up-on-this-shiny-new-crush brain, but the way she gazes up at him is almost…loving?

No, can’t be…

Or can it?

Could just be a bit of wishful thinking, but maybe, just maybe, she feels a spark there too.

_Snap out of it, goofy, you’ve not even had a full conversation with this girl._

But still, he can’t deny the heady feeling that he gets from just one look at her.

She bites her lip and gives him a look that makes his breath catch in his throat.

Terrible moment for that to happen, really; he is singing after all.

_God, I hope no one noticed._

Sorry ‘bout your luck, dude, everyone fucking noticed.

They also noticed that sour note you hit with your guitar that you were too distracted to notice because you were too busy being horny on main.

There’s a sudden lapse in the crowd’s feedback, as if everyone in the venue is collectively going, “wait, did he really just kill the vibe like that?”

The bassist breaks eye contact, shaking her head slightly and looking away.

Noah eyes Bobby as if to say, “You're losing them, bud. Wrap it up.”

He inhales deeply. Then he carries on. And the crowd carries on, too, the vibe, decidedly, not killed.

The rest of Paisley Cuddle’s set goes by without a hitch, but Bobby practically has to keep his eyes on the ceiling to focus on anything other than the girl making him question his own sanity after one interaction.

They finish their set to decent applause. Not nearly at the same magnitude as Beelzebabe, but not as bad as they thought it would’ve been, given Bobby’s little faux pas.

 _Well_ , he thinks once they’ve wrapped up and gone offstage _. What’s done is done._

Bobby stands outside of the venue after the show, the crowd having thinned out substantially by now. 

As soon as the last band finished, he made a beeline for the door, keen on meeting the bass player as soon as possible.

His boys might be wondering where he is but, dammit, he said he would meet up with her after the show, _so they are meeting up after the show_. 

“Hey, Stranger!” he hears from the front door of the venue. The bassist walks out looking flustered but happy. “Wasn’t sure you’d actually show up.”

“I’m known for keeping my promises.”

She smiles and pushes her hair out of her face.

“You were amazing tonight, by the way,” Bobby says. “Like some kind of bass goddess.”

“Wow, really?” she gives him an incredulous look. “Huh. Nobody ever notices the bass in a band. For most people it’s all about the ‘real’ guitars and the vocals. So, thanks. It really means a lot that you noticed.” She gives him a quick once over before she continues.

“No staff out here to interrupt us now, so mind telling me your name?”

“Bobby,” he answers, extending his hand. Wait, is a handshake too formal?

No matter, she daps him up instead of shaking his hand.

“Nice name,” she says.

"Thanks, I got it for my birthday," he replies absentmindedly. 

She straight up chortles at that one. Honest-to-god, clutches her stomach at that one. Bobby seems to stand up a bit straighter knowing he was capable of making her laugh like that, no matter how bad the joke was.

"I'm Storm," she says after most of her laughter has abated. 

“Storm,” he repeats. “That a stage name or something? That can't be your real name.”

She gasps, clutching imaginary pearls, and takes a dramatic step back in feigned shock.

“What?” she drawls in a theatrical impression of an Antebellum Southern accent. “Are you _that_ confident that my government name couldn’t _possibly_ be Storm. Why, I _never_!”

He shakes his head, laughing. “No way you’re not taking the piss right now.”

She joins in on the laughter. “Nah, you got me,” she says once their laughter has subsided. “Storm’s just a nickname everyone calls me.”

“Mind telling me your real name, then?”

“A girl’s gotta keep some secrets,” she says, touching the tip of her nose with her pointer finger conspiratorially. "We'd have to be real close before I disclose that kind of information."

“Fair enough,” he replies. Kinda weird to keep your real name a secret, but there's no use fighting it. “So…you’re called Storm? I’m guessing there’s a story there.”

“As all great names do, of course. You ever read the X-Men comics?” she asks pointing at her silver hair.

“Oh, I get it. Storm. Like the superhero.”

“The very same. I’ve had my hair dyed this color since I was 17 and Storm was always my favorite. One of my friends back home put two and two together and the name just stuck.”

“Funny, I had a huge crush on Storm as a kid,” he replies.

She raises her eyebrows, looking like she wants to say more before she’s interrupted by the sound of someone emerging from the club.

“Sorry I’m late,” the person calls out from behind her. It’s the drummer of Beelzebabe, looking very annoyed and very tipsy. “Crowd was a goddamn nightmare to try and maneuver through and then Hope wanted to talk my ear off the entire night about some guy.”

“Mari! I was wondering where you went off to,” Storm says, engulfing the shorter woman in a tight embrace. “Have you been drinking?” she asks with a frown as she pulls back.

The drummer, Mari, replies, “Just a bit.” She sighs. “You _know_ what Hope gets like when she gets obsessed with a guy. You can’t expect me to deal with her sober.” She buries her face in Storm’s neck.

“Of course not,” Storm replies through suppressed laughter as she strokes Mari’s hair.

 _They seem to be very good friends_ , Bobby thinks.

Wait, no, they’re kissing now. On the mouth. Like in a romantic, totally non-platonic way.

Ouch. Alright, can’t lie, that hurts a little. 

He knows he’s only been acquainted with her for all of a few hours, but he can’t deny how deflated he feels seeing Storm caress someone else’s jaw and run her fingers through someone else’s hair. 

And just when he was starting to think that maybe there might’ve been something between them.

Must’ve been his imagination.

The two women loosen their hold on each other and Storm looks at Bobby, face flushing suddenly at the realization that he’s still there. 

“Have we met before?” Mari asks, looping an arm around Storm’s waist.

“Oh! My bad.” Storm says. “Bobby, this is my girlfriend, Marisol, you probably saw her on the drums when we were up." 

_Girlfriend_. The exclusiveness and finality of the label stings.

"Mari, this is Bobby, Lottie’s friend. His band played earlier, remember, baby?”

“Oh, right.” Marisol says, trying desperately to hide her growing grimace. “Parsley Coddle, was it?”

“Er, Paisley Cuddle, actually,” Bobby corrects her.

“Right…” she replies. She nestles her face into Storm’s shoulder. 

“Your band was killer tonight,” Storm says, completely apathetic to her girlfriend’s displays of affection. “Seriously, I can’t get _Chronic Dumbass_ out of my head, it’s so good.”

“Thanks,” Bobby says, feeling his face heat up at the compliment. “It’s actually the first song I wrote.”

“No way! That’s some seriously good stuff for your first song,” she says, admiration etched all over her face. “We should hang out sometime. Share music tips or something. You wanna exchange socials?”

Marisol’s grip on Storms waist visibly tightens at this proposal.

“Shouldn’t we be getting home, _amor_? It’s pretty late, isn’t it?” she starts planting a slow trail of kisses along Storm’s shoulder, eyes locked firmly on Bobby the entire time.

Now, Bobby doesn’t want to assume anything, but the way she looks at him…almost feels like she’s challenging him. 

_Why would she see_ me _as a challenge, though?_ he wonders.

Storm huffs in response, gently shaking off Marisol. “Babe, please, not tonight. It shouldn’t take more than a minute to swap info. Go on ahead, I’ll be right there.” 

Not the answer she expected, at least not judging by the way she frowns as she lets go of Storm’s waist. She looks Bobby up and down, as if sizing him up, and wobbles down the sidewalk. 

“Don’t mind her, she just gets...moody when she drinks. Like _really_ jealous. And kind of territorial?” Storm exhales sharply and puts her hands on her hips. “It sounds awful when I put it like that, but I promise she’s lovely when she warms to you. Kinda like Lottie, y'know?” 

She glances over her shoulder to get a good look at her girlfriend. She’s given up on walking for now, opting instead to lean against the wall of the club building and stare daggers at Storm and Bobby.

“I should probably go,” Storm says, awkwardly scratching at a tattoo on her wrist. “Hey, can I see your phone?” she asks.

Bobby, without a second thought, pulls his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it before handing it over.

She taps at the screen a few times and types something out. She pulls her own phone out of her pocket, repeats the same process and hands his phone back to him.

“Boom. Mutuals.” She holds her phone up to display his Instagram page.

The button under his name reads “following”.

“Don’t be a stranger, Stranger.”

She waves goodbye and jogs down the sidewalk to catch up with Marisol.

They start talking animatedly as they walk away, the conversation appearing to quickly evolve into a heated argument as they fade out of earshot.

Before he can even reflect on what just happened, someone runs into him from behind to envelop him in a tight hug, briefly knocking the wind out of him.

The unseen assailant reveals their self; it's Lottie. She’s got her trademark sinister smile on as she wraps him in another bone-crushing hug.

“You were so good tonight!” she exclaims as she lets him go. “How was Beelzebabe? Did we crush it or did we crush it?” she asks expectantly.

“You guys were amazing,” he answers, mind wandering to thoughts of Storm. He knows now he’s got no chance, but he’s still drawn to her all the same. “You really smashed it tonight.”

Lottie snickers in response. “Of course we did.”

She moves in a bit closer until their faces are inches apart. 

“Tonight’s been a major win for both of us so…celebratory smoke sesh at my place?” she breathes out, voice just barely above a whisper.

The invitation itself is perfectly innocent, but the hungry expression on Lottie’s face says everything; things can and _will_ go further if he wants.

And right now, taking things further might be just what he needs to take his mind off the girl that’s got a firm grip on his heart but couldn't possibly return his feelings.

“Yeah,” he answers. “That sounds like fun.”


	2. stormy weather

**_stormyweather_** _started following you._

Bobby stares at the notification, his phone screen providing the only other source of light in Lottie’s room aside from the dim salt lamp on her bedside table.

The rainfall outside lulls to a light drizzle as Storm’s last words to him echo in his mind.

_“Don’t be a stranger, Stranger.”_

Should he message her now? He should message her now, right? She _did_ say she wanted to hang out some time. It is kind of late, though. And it’d be weird to message so soon. But how soon is too soon? What if she loses interest? What if she thinks _he’s_ lost interest? What if she takes this as a sign that he doesn’t wanna be friends and she straight up blocks him and they never talk to each other again and he spends the rest of his days mourning the loss of what could have been?

_Breathe._

The rhythm of the rain keeps time with his thoughts, acting as a sort of metronome for Bobby’s overthinking.

His thumb hovers over the notification. He hesitates and opts instead to turn his phone off. 

Not like he’s been keeping count or anything, but this is the seventeenth time he’s done this.

Seventeen times his thumb has hovered and hesitated over the notification and seventeen times he’s cursed himself for chickening out.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight in an attempt to steady himself, to make sense of the situation.

He is acutely aware of the fact that his brain is doing somersaults for a total stranger.

He is also acutely aware of the fact that he’s thinking about said stranger despite being in Lottie’s bed for the sole purpose of _not_ thinking about her.

Bobby convinced himself that if he tried hard enough, he could block her from his thoughts entirely and function, you know, like a person.

But that’s not how feelings work. It’s not like he can just ignore her big brown eyes and her coconut-scented hair and her tooth-achingly sweet laugh and oh my god, get a grip dude you’ve talked to her twice. 

_Do crushes always make you this delusional?_

Bobby cringes a bit upon the realization that he’s feeling the same sense of giddy infatuation he felt when he was a teenager, awkwardly flirting with girls he liked in the hopes they felt something too.

_Enough of that._

Tonight was one of the most important nights of Paisley Cuddle’s career and here he was losing his shit over an Instagram follow.

His band just played the same show as Seventh Heaven! The same band that had a sold-out tour not even a year ago! No way should he be thinking about anything else right now.

He might have fumbled for a moment, but the applause they got was on an entirely different level than anything they’d gotten in the nearly three years since the band was formed.

Gary texted Bobby sometime after the show to let him know the club promoter loved their set and wanted them to perform again soon.

After years of playing in dive bars and shady clubs and small underground shows, this was looking like the kind of exposure they needed to finally get their music out there.

Things could only go up from here.

Smiling softly to himself, he glances out the window into the overcast night sky.

The gray clouds part momentarily to reveal the moon, iridescent and full.

Shimmering silver. 

And now he’s thinking about her again.

_Jesus, kid, you’re in deep._

He picks his phone up once more, glaring at the notification like it’ll go away if he looks hard enough.

Surely it wouldn’t hurt to just look at her page.

At least it wouldn’t hurt in theory.

Alas, there his thumb goes again, hovering and hesitating.

 _It’s just Instagram,_ he thinks. _Why can’t you just click her name?_

He already knows that the “why" is sleeping beside him, snoring loudly, oblivious to his internal conflict.

It’s not like they’re together or anything, but he can’t shake the icky feeling he gets when he thinks about talking to another girl while he’s already in Lottie’s bed.

He can’t do that to her.

_Looks like “taking your mind off things” didn’t pan out the way you hoped it would._

He puts his phone down and rubs his face with a groan, mentally replaying the events following the concert. 

Lottie fumbled with her keys to unlock the front door to her apartment.

She was trying not to let it show, but Bobby’s known her long enough to know how shit her poker face was.

She was excited. Nervous even. He was too.

It didn’t take a genius to see why; this whole “will they, won’t they?” thing between them had been going on for a little over three years.

Most of it was a bit of flirty banter here, some wistful gazes there, but nothing more.

There was always the tiniest, lingering implication that either one of them could have made a move at any point if they really wanted to.

It was always just a matter of who would act first, who would be the one to tip the scales and take things further.

All they needed was a catalyst to set things in motion, the right chain of events.

The perfect storm.

Lottie pushed the door open. Her roommate, Hannah, whom Bobby had only ever conversed with in passing, was curled up on the couch, engrossed in a book as per usual.

Hannah glanced up briefly as they walked in before returning to her reading. 

“You never said anything about guests…” she started, fingers wrapping protectively around the edges of the book cover.

“Sorry, babes,” Lottie said as she shut the door behind her. “It was kind of an impromptu thing after the show. You understand, right?”

“The show…” Hannah started. She lowered her book to get a better look at the unexpected visitor and frowned.

“Please tell me you two aren’t smoking again,” she whined, eyes darting between them.

“I mean I could say that, but it wouldn’t exactly be true,” Bobby responded.

“Lottie! We talked about this!” Hannah squeaked. “You guys stunk the whole place up last time! It took me ages to get the smell out of the curtains.”

Lottie rolled her eyes in response.

“You can relax, Han. We’re just gonna be in my room this time. No way you’ll be able to smell anything,” she said, shrugging her jacket off and tossing her keys on the coffee table. “Look, if you even get a _whiff_ , I’ve got laundry duty for the rest of the month. Promise.”

Hannah, too tired to protest, simply sighed and returned to her reading.

Lottie turned to Bobby, her expression mischievous.

“Come on,” she said, leading him to her room. “Let’s have some fun.”

He recalls feeling a bit weird.

Not weird like “I’m not sure if this is actually what I want”, because he definitely did.

But weird like “I know we’re friends and I’ve had a tiny crush on you for a while and I got the feeling you did too, but I didn’t wanna ruin our friendship if I was wrong and now that we’re here and actually about to do something about it, I’m freaking out a little. Also, I really fancy your bandmate even though she’s taken and I barely know her so I’m very conflicted and almost definitely having sex with you to distract myself from confronting how I feel”.

And, alright, _maybe_ the weed was altering his mood or whatever. Because that’s a thing drugs tend to do.

He and Lottie were on her bed smoking a blunt made of rose petals because Lottie swore by roses as an aphrodisiac.

The somber sounds of “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” permeated the relative quiet as the rain started to pick up outside.

Lottie had her head on his shoulder, rubbing slow circles on his knee with her thumb.

Waiting.

Anticipating what he’d do next.

_You should probably say something._

“It wasn’t raining when we got here, was it?” he said, trying (and failing) to make the strange mood dissipate as his eyes averted to the window.

“Pretty sure it only started a few minutes ago, babes,” Lottie answered, not at all interested in weather small talk.

The temperate rainfall quickly rose to a harsh downpour as they sat together for a few more tense, wordless minutes.

Radio silence.

The easy conversation that flowed naturally whenever they smoked together wasn’t there.

Just the soft _pitter patter_ of the rain and Peter Murphy’s crooning and the occasional exhale of blunt smoke.

 _This is the shittiest aphrodisiac ever,_ Bobby thought as he took another hit. _I am zero percent turned on right now._

They sat and smoked together for a little while longer before Lottie finally broke the silence. 

“Storm’s really picking up out there, huh?” she asked listlessly, the end of her sentence punctuated by a clap of thunder.

_Storm._

A flash of silver struck his mind’s eye as a beam of lightning streaked across the sky.

_How’s she got a hold on me like this, even when I’m in bed with a girl I’ve liked for ages?_

What was it about her? God, probably her smile. 

Her smile when she performed, her smile when she got lost in the music, her smile when she cracked up at a joke.

That smile that left him _entranced_ , _entranced, entranced_ all those hours ago.

That smile that makes it easier for him to convince himself he’s fine yearning, if only to know more about her.

Maybe he could learn to be content just longing. Never over stepping any friendly boundaries and hopelessly, fruitlessly longing.

But that’s not very fair. Not fair to her, not fair to her girlfriend, not fair to Lottie, and not fair to himself.

_What are you doing to yourself?_

He can’t exactly shut his feelings off, but he’ll never be satisfied pining over someone who doesn’t reciprocate his feelings. Sooner he realizes that, sooner he can get over it.

And the best way to get over someone is to get under someone.

He remembers his lips crashing into Lottie’s.

Her straddling him as his hands roamed over her entire body.

Her reaching a hand into the waistband of his jeans, teasing the growing tent in his boxers.

The both of them clumsily stripping down to their underwear, reluctant to keep their hands or mouths off of each other.

Anything that was happening outside of here and now was pushed firmly out of his thoughts, at least while Lottie had her hands on him. She was gorgeous and most importantly she was here.

Things could not be going more perfectly.

...But something still felt off.

This is what he’s wanted for years. Why did it feel…weird? Should they do this some other time? Is the music too loud? Speaking of… _who fucks to Bauhaus?_ _Were they really about to fuck to Bauhaus?_

“Um…” he muttered into her lips. “You’ve got a condom, right?”

She released her hold on him, her bloodshot eyes scanning every inch of his face.

“Are you joking?” she frowned. “I thought you would have one.”

“Well, I didn’t really expect to end the night…y’know,” he motioned to her, still straddling him. “Under you.”

She quickly surveyed her surroundings, desperately searching _._ There had to be _something_ they could do.

“Maybe, just this once, we could…?” she bit her lip, eyes silently pleading as she gently ran her hands down the length of his exposed torso.

She wanted him _bad._ And he wanted her too.

But he was high, not stupid.

The desire for goth girl pussy was strong, but not strong enough to take that kind of risk.

He shook his head. “Maybe next time…” he said. She sighed and climbed off of him, flopping dramatically onto her mattress.

“No. You’re right,” she muttered into one of her pillows.

Bobby flopped down beside her and they laid together, unsure how to proceed.

Amazing how the mood could go from slightly weird to straight up awkward just like that.

The melancholy music felt even more comically out of place than ever.

 _Maybe playing a nearly 10-minute song about the death of a fictional vampire wasn’t the best move,_ Bobby thought suppressing a grin.

It was so macabre and unfitting and unapologetically Lottie that he couldn’t help but find it endearing.

He would’ve laughed if not for how vulnerable he felt lying next to his best friend, high, half-naked and very clearly still erect.

Lottie propped herself up on her elbow and faced him, eyes sweeping over the entirety of his body.

“Looks like we’re not getting up to anything too serious tonight,” she started, moving in closer.

Her hands found their way to his torso again, making their way tantalizingly towards his groin.

“But at least let me take care of this,” she said, teasingly skimming the outline of his hard-on.

Her fingertips brushed against the tip of his cock, eliciting a sharp inhale on Bobby’s end.

Lottie raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to say the words.

"Work your magic, then,” he rasped, desperate for some relief.

Lottie palmed him through his underwear and pressed a swift kiss to his jaw.

A soft groan escaped his lips as her kisses moved lower, over his neck, across his chest, down his abdomen, and lower still, making quick work of his underwear.

Bobby’s face grows hot as he recalls her taking him in her mouth, eyes locked devilishly on his the entire time.

He didn’t know if it was the fact that he hadn’t gotten head in ages or if it was just a side effect of his heightened, inebriated state, but _fuck_.

He didn’t fully buy into crystals and sage, but the way she made his head spin using her lips and her tongue almost made him believe in magic.

He lasted two minutes tops ( _ha)_ before he was overcome by the sensation of her lips wrapped around him.

He returned the favor of course.

She lasted longer than he did but still. She came.

And that was it.

No deliberation among them, no post-nut pillow talk. She just rolled over and went to sleep.

Bobby wondered if that made this whole…thing more or less awkward.

He couldn't help but ask himself; _What are we?_

They didn’t actually fuck or anything but come on.

Huge difference between “friends” and “friends who gave each other head that one time”.

Could they really just go back to being totally platonic nothing-there-at-all friends after totally _not_ platonically mouth-fucking each other?

The question snaps him back to the present.

He looks over at Lottie, laying comfortably at his side. She's still sound asleep.

They'd shared a bed before, sure, because that's what friends are for. But it felt so odd to wake up next to her without any clothes on.

With a sigh, he rises from the bed, careful not to rouse her sleeping form.

He pulls his clothes back on and checks the time on his phone.

Just past 3 a.m.

Perfect time to ignore any lingering thoughts about what happened and Uber the fuck home.

The notification is still there too, serving as a grim reminder that he has to come to terms with his feelings.

After one final sidelong glance at Lottie, he leaves her room.

Maybe she’ll be mad he left without saying anything. Maybe she won’t care.

That’s a problem for the morning. Right now he’s just relieved he can finally open that Accursed Instagram Notification without stressing about it.

Okay, so that was a lie. Even though he’s in his own bed now, he’s still stressing about the notification.

The rain had all but died down entirely by the time he got home and it was only a matter of time before dawn would start visibly creeping on the horizon.

The need for sleep was battling with the need to just hit that notification, just once so it would go away.

He just _can’t_ though.

Something about having a direct line to Storm at his literal fingertips made their “connection” (if you could even call it that) feel more tangible. More _real_.

And it’s fucking terrifying. 

_You don’t even have to message her right now,_ Bobby tells himself. _Just check out her page and get a feel for who she is._

Was it silly to hype himself up to look at someone’s Instagram page? Yes, absolutely. But ya gotta do what ya gotta do. And he knows it’s gonna keep him up all night if he doesn’t check.

_Alright, you can do this._

Deciding to bite the bullet and get it over with, he clicks her username and, to his surprise, his phone doesn’t explode.

It’s literally just an Instagram page.

A very nice one at that, at least that’s what it seems like looking at her neat layout and follower count of nearly 100k.

Wait, 100k? That can’t be right. Her band’s first official show was only a couple hours ago. Was Beelzebabe more popular than Lottie let on? This requires further investigation. Time to go detective mode.

He looks first to Storm’s profile picture, a crude stick figure drawing of a girl holding a guitar. Her bio is just a lightning bolt emoji and a link to stream Beelzebabe's music. Incredibly understated for someone with hundreds of posts and hundreds of thousands of followers.

Looking down to her actual content, Bobby’s eyes are met with a barrage of selfies, outfit-of-the-days, pictures of band practice and a bunch of close-ups of tattoos and piercings.

With far too many options at his disposal, he taps one of her newer posts at random.

It’s a picture of her from 3 days ago, towering over Marisol in a pair of dangerously high heeled boots.

Marisol’s arm is slung around Storm’s waist, noticeably shorter than her girlfriend but still somehow exuding a confident, domineering aura. Storm beams lovingly at her girlfriend in the picture.

 **love this top :)** the caption reads. **the shirt I have on is cool too 😌**

Bobby’s behind on lesbian slang, but he’s guessing that’s a sexual thing?

Checking the comments aaaannnd…he was correct. Everyone’s going absolutely feral in the comments. Keep scrolling.

Outfit of the day.

_Scroll._

Another couple picture.

_Scroll._

A fun little segment Storm calls “new tat alert” in which she alerts the timeline that she got a new tattoo. This one's a stick and poke of DoodleBob. 

_Scroll._

The other members playing their instruments and laughing together.

_Scroll._

It’s the same formula for the majority of her page. 

It takes him wading through at least a year’s worth of pictures before he reaches the interesting stuff, before she got an actual aesthetic established.

The first post that catches his eye is a full body shot that makes his heart stop.

She’s dressed like Storm. Complete with the cape, leotard and black thigh high boots, she’s the spitting image of the hero she named herself after.

Bobby's definitely _not_ focusing on how perfectly she fills out the costume, thank you very much. He just admires the professionalism and accuracy that went into it.

The next picture down is her in the same costume, but this time she’s posing next to a handsome man with cornrows who’s sporting an equally striking costume of his own and wielding a cardboard shield.

**storm and violet man make a pretty good duo if i do say so myself :) @rahim hmu when ur down for more crime fighting**

The guy wasn’t in any of her newer posts but something about him was very familiar.

Next.

A picture of Storm laughing with two girls, a bubbly blonde and a curvaceous brunette. The blonde sticks her tongue out at the camera and the brunette strikes a playful pose. Their bright clothes stand in stark contrast to Storm’s, decked out in all black.

Both girls are out-of-this-world beautiful. Jeez, it’s like she only befriends supermodels, all her friends are super good-looking.

**hey @queenpriya and @hunnybeechelsea yall are like human sunshine ilysm**

Priya and Chelsea seem to show up a lot on her page and every picture they take with Storm, they look like they're having having the time of their lives. They all just seem to radiate positive energy.

Next.

Storm kissing Marisol at Barcelona Pride like they’re the only two people in the world. Alright, the picture’s pretty cute. Even if he is a little jealous, they complement each other well. And she looks happy.

Bobby notices the caption.

**in the words of the great philosopher and poet domo wilson: bi pride stand up! 💗💜💙**

_Bi?_ As in bisexual? Huh. Why is he surprised? She never explicitly said she _only_ liked girls. Guess that’s on him for assuming.

Is it crazy that there’s now the tiniest, most minuscule inkling of hope that he maybe has a chance with her even though he definitely doesn’t because, regardless of her sexuality, she’s still in a relationship?

 _Yes,_ he decides. _Yes, it is._

A boy can dream.

Bobby notices something else; this is the first and only picture on Storm’s page where Marisol is tagged.

Hundreds of pictures with her friends where they're tagged every time they show up but her girlfriend is only tagged _once?_ Something’s up.

Maybe...and this is just a thought...Marisol’s page will have some answers. He really, really doesn’t want to. But his nosiness knows no bounds. Time to snoop.

Her page is clean. Stern. The polar opposite of her girlfriend’s and not at all what you’d expect from the drummer of a punk band.

There are only forty-something posts and they all fit the same neat aesthetic.

Pictures of dense books and sunsets and latte art and absolutely nothing that had to do with the band.

Beautiful in a no-nonsense “she means business” kind of way, much like the girl behind the account.

Her bio is entirely in Spanish, so Bobby reckons he’ll be hitting _see translation_ often.

He checks out her most recent picture, one of her holding a book and smoldering at the camera.

She was a stunner for sure. It’s kind of funny now that he thinks about it, he’s been jealous of good-looking guys before, but never in his life did he think he’d be jealous of a beautiful girl.

He moves on to the next picture, a cup of coffee sitting next to a notebook covered in sprawling cursive.

The caption is about a paragraph long and Bobby has neither the time nor the attention span to read all of it (also it’s in Spanish), so he hits _see translation_ and skims it instead.

Looks like she’s in school studying to be…oh no.

She’s a law student _. Of course she’s a law student._ Because being an insanely hot bilingual drummer wasn’t enough of a flex, she had to be a lawyer-in-training. Isn’t law school crazy intense? How is she able to commit to a band _and_ go to law school? Is she secretly superhuman?

Don’t overthink it, just keep scrolling.

He scrolls until he finds the one picture of Storm on Marisol’s page. A picture of them that someone else took, locking lips in formalwear at what seems to be a Very Important Event.

The picture is just...the epitome of that feeling when you're single and see a couple all over each other in public and remind you how single you are. 

**Podría pasar toda mi vida besándote, mi tormentita ❤️** the caption reads.

Bobby doesn’t know a word of Spanish, but he can just _tell_ it’s gonna be something super loved-up before he even looks at the translation.

**I could spend the rest of my life kissing you, my little storm ❤️**

Oh, they’re _in love_ in love.

_I can’t take much more of this._

Bobby, having had enough, returns to Storm’s page and scrolls until he reaches the very last picture.

Storm, looking noticeably younger, is sat on a small practice amp, protectively cradling her bass in one arm and shooting a peace sign up to the camera with the other. Smudged makeup stains her face, and her then-shoulder length gray hair adorns her head in tight, messy curls. She smiles sleepily at the camera.

 **tired asf, got my heart broke twice today, our guitarist quit, and my life is in shambles but everything’s okay as long as im makin music** 😚🤘🏽

There's something really authentic and genuine about this post that Bobby really admires.

In a moment of absolute weakness, he double taps the picture.

Wait, did he double tap the picture?

Oh my god, he doubled tapped the picture.

Alright, no need to panic! Everything’s fine. The post can’t be that old.

He checks the date on the picture and finds out that it is only…three years old. That picture was posted three years ago.

As in she’s gonna know he was doing a deep dive on her Instagram like a weirdo. 

Well! He's fucked. Nothing to do now but sleep on it, like one does when ignoring the consequences of their actions.

He puts his phone on his nightstand, fully prepared to turn in for the night.

Just as he's about to drift off, his phone rings with a message.

 _For the love of all that is holy, please don’t be who I think it is,_ he silently pleads as he picks his phone up.

Speak of the devil.

It’s **stormyweather** herself.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  
**stormyweather:** u stalking me, stranger? 🤔

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck f u c k. S H E K N O W S. Of course she knows, but he didn’t think she’d notice _that_ fast.

_Time to flee the country and change my name, I guess. I hear Mexico’s lovely this time of year._

Just as he’s about to search for discount flights to Mexico, Bobby’s phone chimes with another message.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  
**stormyweather:** can’t sleep either, huh :/

Oh?

Tentatively, he opens the new message.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**stormyweather:** still you could’ve just messaged me like a normal person instead of going stalker mode lol  
**boopsmckenzie:** Me? Stalk someone? Never 😴  
  
**stormyweather:** yah okay buddy bc going 3 years deep on my ig isn’t stalking?  
**stormyweather:** okay joe goldberg ✋🏽😐

Please say sike.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**stormyweather:** looks like my only viable course of action is to stalk you back  
**boopsmckenzie:** Is that how it works? You get stalked, you stalk the stalker back?  
  
**stormyweather:** yup, shit cancels out like pemdas  
**boopsmckenzie:** Can't argue with that logic! do your worst :P  
  
**stormyweather:** bet

He immediately remembers every embarrassing thing he has ever posted. Oh God, which picture is she gonna like?

 _Please_ not the one from when he went as a Playboy bunny for Halloween.

Or the time he and Gary got shitfaced and reenacted a bunch of vines together in a Tesco parking lot.

Or the dick cake. Definitely not the dick cake.

Wait, why does he post such weird shit to his Instagram again?

Not even fifteen seconds later she likes one of his posts.

He checks to see which picture she liked, surprised at how she found a picture that fast. He hasn't done anything that embarassing recently (at least not that he can recall).

It’s one of his favorite pictures, a fairly recent one of him baking cupcakes with his sister and his nieces the last time they came to visit.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**stormyweather:** boom now we're even  
**boopsmckenzie:** Damn you couldn’t have scrolled further down? I promise there’s way more interesting stuff  
  
**stormyweather:** mighty bold of u to assume i have the patience to scroll all the way to the bottom of ur page  
**boopsmckenzie:** i have fewer posts than you  
**stormyweather:** and i have fewer brain cells. i saw a cute picture so i liked it.  
  
**boopsmckenzie:** You think im cute then? I’m flattered 😚  
  
**stormyweather:** i said the picture was cute do not get it twisted  
**boopsmckenzie:** But you’re not denying that I’m cute😏  
  
[](https://i.imgflip.com/3bkcig.jpg)  
  


Bobby laughs out loud when he sees the picture she sent.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**stormyweather:** Anyway- 😐  
**stormyweather:** if ur stalking me that means ur interested in getting to know me so why not make that easier.  
**stormyweather:** we both take turns asking each other questions. i ask u one, then you ask me one.  
**boopsmckenzie:** Fun.  
**stormyweather:** very. you go first  
  


Amazing how his mind is going blank right now despite having had a million questions about her not even five minutes ago.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**boopsmckenzie:** Alright. where are you from originally?  
**stormyweather:** nyc born and raised babyyyy.  
**boopsmckenzie:** That’s so cool! I’ve always wanted to go to new york.  
**boopsmckenzie:** Why’d you move here? new york seems loads more fun than london  
**stormyweather:** AHT you get one (1) question per turn, thank you, then it’s my turn to ask you. thems the rules  
**boopsmckenzie:** Well if thems the rules who am I to break them 😔  
  


Her turn. 

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**stormyweather:** what's your sign?  
**boopsmckenzie:** gemini  
**stormyweather:** oooh idk much about astrology but im an aries and ive been told those signs are compatible 😊  


_Was she flirting?_ Of course not. That would be crazy. 

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  
**stormyweather:** your turn.  
**boopsmckenzie:** any chance you’ll let me know your real name?  


It's a long shot, but he asks anyway. 

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**stormyweather:** not likely! unless we become really close friends. until then i am storm to u sir  
**boopsmckenzie:** Fine, I’ll just ask lottie  
**stormyweather:** jokes on you she doesn’t know my real name either.  
**boopsmckenzie:** okay then I’ll ask your singer  
**stormyweather:** Hope doesn’t know either try again 😜  


Sheesh, this girl keeps her guard up. 

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  
**bobbysmckenzie:** She is my absolute last resort but I guess I will have to beg Marisol to let me know your real name  
**stormyweather:** she don’t know either!  


Her own girlfriend doesn't know her actual name? She's gotta be kidding. 

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  
**bobbysmckenzie:** No way your girlfriend doesn’t know your real name  
**stormyweather:** yes way actually, when we met i told her i want her to call me storm  


Should he press for more information...? Fuck it, we nosy. 

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**boopsmckenzie:** and she's cool with that?  
**stormyweather:** she’s got other things to worry about  
**boopsmckenzie:** other things like the band?  
**stormyweather:** the band’s more of a hobby for her tbh. when we’re not practicing she’s usually studying.  
**boopsmckenzie:** oh yeah she’s in law school right?  


Way to let her know you lurked on Marisol's page too, Einstein. He barely has enough time to realize what he's said before she replies.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  
**stormyweather:** wow it wasn’t enough for you to insta-stalk me, you had to stalk my gf too?? shameless  


Bless her and her sense of humor.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**boopsmckenzie:** I like to be thorough when I stalk people  
**stormyweather:** alright I can respect that  
**boopsmckenzie:** Thank you. Your turn.  
**stormyweather:** it would seem u have an affinity for baking mr. mckenzie 🤔 do u bake often?  
**boopsmckenzie:** Yup! I used to bake all the time with my mum when I was little and it's still one of my favorite things to do. If not for the band, I’d probably have been a chef or something  
**stormyweather:** oh? ur that good huh  
**boopsmckenzie:** I don’t mean to brag but my baking has been called world class 😎  
**boopsmckenzie:** By my mum mind you but the woman's got good taste, I promise.  
**stormyweather:** inch resting  
**stormyweather:** perchance could i possibly sample these baked goods someday? for science of course  
**boopsmckenzie:** Oof, i would but my baking is reserved for friends and you just said we aren’t 🤧  
**stormyweather:** yet! we’ll work our way up to it.  


Can't say he's ever heard of friendship being extorted in exchange for pastries, but there's a first time for everything.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**boopsmckenzie:** Youre very different over dm from when we talked after the show  
**stormyweather:** good different or bad different  
**boopsmckenzie:** jury's still out  
**stormyweather:** that’s fair.  
**boopsmckenzie:** For someone who doesn't want other people to know her real name, you sure are being pretty open to me  
**stormyweather:** Maybe im just comfortable talking to you 😉  


Excuse me _she fucking what?_ Is Bobby dreaming right now? 

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**stormyweather:** sarcasm aside, u seem super nice. And alright MAYBE you’re kinda funny.  
**boopsmckenzie:** Why thank you uwu  
**stormyweather:** you did not just type out uwu  
**stormyweather:** im gonna deep fry your fucking ankles istg please don’t say that shit ever again  
**boopsmckenzie:** uwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwuwu  
**stormyweather:** potential friendship terminated sorry it had to be this way  
**stormyweather:** do not try to message me ever again i will not respond 😐  
**boopsmckenzie:** you wouldn’t  


She does not respond.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**boopsmckenzie:** Alright fine maybe you would.  
**stormyweather:** some crimes can never be forgiven and typing uwu is one of them  
**boopsmckenzie:** Is there some way for me to atone for my sins  
**stormyweather:** welllll you could promise to hang out soon 👉🏽👈🏽  
**stormyweather:** like I said before we could make music together  
**stormyweather:** all you gotta do is say the word, im down to hang whenever  


Bobby couldn’t believe his eyes.

To think he’d spent all that time worrying about what he’d say to her. A warm sensation bubbles up in his chest that fills him up to the brim.

**Messages with** stormyweather  
  


  
**boopsmckenzie:** Yeah, I'm game.  
**stormyweather:** dope we’ll hash out the details later  
**stormyweather:** its been fun talking to u but ngl im getting kinda tired. night bobby  
**boopsmckenzie:** don’t you mean morning  
**stormyweather:** alright genius 🙄  
**boopsmckenzie:** jkjk gn storm  
**stormyweather:** ✌🏽😌  


Sunlight bleeds steadily through the blinds, reminding him of how much time had passed.

Bobby closes his eyes, the sleep hitting him as soon as he puts his phone down. For good this time. He lets the warmth in his chest overflow, washing over him as he drifts to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fic's not dead i swear lol. i have way too much i wanna do with this story to just abandon it so stay tuned (also my bad for making half of this chapter happen over dms). if you're still reading thank you so much! i promise the next chapter will be way more music oriented. also if i ever take this long to update again, you have my full permission to cyberbully me into posting


	3. jerk it out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trying something new! i got a suggestion to include music that sounds like what the bands are playing, so im testing that out this chapter. song titles have links to the songs that inspired them in case you're curious what they sound like (also pls open them in a new tab, the links dont redirect :( sorry about that) lmk what you think of it so i know if i should keep it up in future chapters  
> * [(2/17/2021) EDIT: removed the link to the song that "glass bones and paper skin" was based on*

Bobby’s eyes bolt open.

His hands grasp for purchase in the folds of his duvet as he tries to locate the source of the loud buzzing sound that woke him from a very strange nightmare.

The only thing he remembers is being chased by a giant crow. Storm was there. Gary’s nan was there too for some reason.

His head is pounding, presumably a side effect of the drunken Alfred Hitchcock movie marathon Lottie talked him into having last night after telling her he’d never seen _Psycho_.

 _Well, this is embarrassing_ , he thinks. All those films about murder and suspense, yet the silliest one, the one where the movie’s villain is a literal flock of birds, gave him nightmares. Lottie would never let him hear the end of it.

And on top of that, he can still hear the buzzing.

He soon finds that the noise is coming from his phone, vibrating as he receives a call from Storm. He sleepily grabs his phone, wincing slightly at the bright screen.

Mustering all of his energy, he accepts the call, presses the phone to his ear, and lets out a groggy, “H’lo?”

Storm snorts with laughter on the other end. “You sound like _shit_. Long night?”

Bobby looks around his room at the mess of blankets and sheets from the previous night’s ruined pillow fort and the empty beer cans and crisp packets strewn about the floor.

“Yeah, you could say that,” he responds, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “What’s up?”

“We’re friends, right?” she asks.

“Of course,” he answers.

“Okay, so you know how you promised we’d hang out like three months ago?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“And you know how you’ve cancelled on me every time I asked you to make plans?”

“Oh, I don’t like where this is going,” he responds.

“I have receipts! You can’t say you haven’t cancelled on me every time.”

Well, he did. But like for legitimate reasons.

It’s not like he would flake on her on purpose; he actually _was_ busy most of the time. Micromanaging the band was a lot of work!

…And, okay, _maybe_ keeping busy was as good an excuse as any not to spend time with her in real life.

Because the thought of actually hanging out with her makes him very nervous and very sweaty. He is literally getting clammy just thinking about seeing her in person again and doing Normal Friend ThingsTM with her.

Talking to her was one thing, he’d grown very comfortable talking to her over the past few months.

DMs were far removed enough from reality in his mind that direct messaging her regularly was no big deal.

He tensed up when Storm asked if they could exchange phone numbers, but, to his surprise, talking to her on the phone was easy too. Like talking to an old friend.

Now hanging out, that was the hard part. That part he hadn’t gotten to yet.

“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but I _do_ recall you cancelling on me quite a few times,” he says, deflecting the blame.

“Maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“Alright, _fine_ , a couple times. But you’ve done it more than I have.”

“Let’s just call it even then, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure. As long as you’re not planning on skipping out on me tonight, too.”

She says it like a joke, but she sounds anxious.

And with good reason. Her band would be headlining their first show tonight and Storm had been talking about it nonstop for the past few weeks. It was for a small club that Storm said herself was “super fuckin’ easy to get a gig at”, but that didn’t stop her from gushing about it.

“Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

“Good,” she sighs in relief. “Because my friend Chelsea’s throwing a party at her place after the show and told me to bring some friends. Wanna come? Girl knows how to throw a good party and she’d be cool with you bringing your band too.”

There go his palms getting all sweaty at the prospect of being near her.

“I’ll be there,” Bobby answers, ignoring the anxious voice in his head telling him to make up an excuse on the spot.

“Dope. See you tonight.” He can practically hear her smile through the phone.

“Oh, and Bobby?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m holding you to it. No blowing me off. Not this time.”

She hangs up.

Bobby yawns and stretches and leaves his comfortable spot on his bed in search of some relief for his headache. There should be something in the medicine cabinet…probably.

He heads to the bathroom, grateful when he finds that he does have pain reliever, slightly less grateful when he remembers that medicine doesn’t kick in instantly, and takes a quick shower while he waits to feel the effects.

On his way out of the bathroom after his shower, he nearly bumps into Lottie, headed towards his room with a steaming mug in each of her hands.

“Oh,” she says. “Didn’t think you’d be up yet.”

Bobby, surprised that she hasn’t gone home yet, instinctively covers his bare chest with his arms at the sudden realization that he’s still only got a towel on.

“Oh, please, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Lottie teases. She holds one of the mugs towards him.

“Took the liberty of making your tea for you.”

“Oh! Thanks,” Bobby says, grabbing the warm mug gingerly from Lottie’s hand. The tea smells amazing. “Got my sugar?”

“All four million teaspoons.”

“And the milk?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“You’re a godsend, Lottie.”

“I know I am,” she smirks. “Which is why I also made you breakfast.”

Perplexed at Lottie’s generosity this morning, he follows her as she starts to make her way towards the –

“ _Wait._ ” She stops him before he can take another step and extricates the mug from his hands.

“As much as I enjoy seeing you like this,” she says, taking in his towel-clad form. “I think it’d be in both of our best interests if you got dressed first.”

… _Fine._ He throws his clothes on first and _then_ he follows her to the kitchen. 

“I know you’re a baby when it comes to horror, so consider this an apology for making you sit through six hours of Hitchcock,” she says.

She somehow remembered an offhand comment he made years ago about how much he loved a good dippy egg on toast and just went ahead and made it for him.

“And the eggs are extra dippy!” Bobby exclaims. “You know me so well.”

He tucks into his breakfast with fervor, giving Lottie a quick thumbs up and a “my compliments to the chef” between bites.

“So, I guess I’ll head out then,” Lottie says once he’s about finished eating.

“What?” Bobby says through a mouthful of toast. “No, stay.”

“I ate before you woke up if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I can’t just want to spend time with my best friend?” he looks up at her, doing that cute, pouty, pleading thing with his face that always seems to get him what he wants.

Lottie sighs despite the smile on her face and they move to the couch so they can sit and drink their tea together.

They talk about the movies they watched the night before, Lottie playfully reaming him when he says an element of the movie wasn’t scary (“Maybe not by today’s horror standards, but that shower scene was revolutionary stuff in 1960”). He tells her about The Bird Nightmare and she only teases him a little bit.

He was glad that they were back to the way things were before.

Kind of.

The residual awkwardness of their first hook up had staved off. Mostly.

They still had their moments. It is _surprisingly_ difficult to look your friend in the eye after your dick’s been in their mouth…among other places.

But things went mostly back to normal. There was a week after their first encounter where they kind of ignored each other. That was the worst part of the whole thing.

But, eventually, they managed to push all the awkwardness to the side. They were back to getting high together in no time, playing air guitar along to whatever vinyl they were listening to and asking each other stupid “would you rather” questions while in a euphoric haze. Like normal.

And when they were high enough, they fucked. With protection, of course. Not like normal.

Or at least it was a new kind of normal, since it had pretty much become routine for them at this point. If they were getting high together, chances were they were gonna shag afterwards.

They tried to make things work sober, but it was…interesting to say the least.

Alright, interesting is an understatement. It was terrifying. It was still good, definitely, but it was like someone turned the dial on the awkwardness settings to maximum.

 _Never again_ , they both vowed.

Things might not have worked out at all if not for the unspoken rule between the two of them that neither were to speak of what went down after they were finished.

When they’re hanging out like friends, they are just that. Friends.

His feelings for her didn’t necessarily go away. Being with Lottie still felt warm and safe and familiar. He still looked forward to spending time with her, still thought she was beautiful when she went on minute-long tangents about the placements of the stars, still tried his hardest to make her laugh with his godawful puns.

He expected that regularly hooking up with her would complicate their friendship, but nothing changed, not really. 

As long as she was cool with it and they could carry on like normal, he was okay with it too.

Bobby finishes what might be the best cup of tea he’s ever had and finds himself staring into the dregs at the bottom of his cup. His hangover may be almost completely eradicated, but he still feels uneasy and he can’t quite put his finger on why. Maybe he could do with a bit of perspective.

“Fancy reading my tea leaves?” he asks Lottie upon finishing his cup.

She shakes her head and takes another sip of her own tea before answering. “No.”

Bobby gasps. “You’d really pass up on the chance to read my tea leaves?” he asks. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“It is quite literally impossible for me to read anything with the amount of sugar and milk you take in your tea,” she responds with another sip.

“Then I’ll drink a cup of black tea.”

“Bobby, the last time you tried the tea I use, you said it tasted, and I quote, ‘like dog taint’.”

He grimaces at the memory of the bitter tea. “Well it _does_. But I’m willing to suffer if I must. For clarity.”

Lottie sets her finished cup down and gives Bobby an appraising look. “Something on your mind?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Kind of?”

“Bobby, you’re one of my closest friends, you can talk to me about anything,” Lottie says sympathetically.

Bobby hesitates, unable to identify what exactly has him feeling this way, then shakes his head. It’s not worth worrying about if there isn’t technically a problem, right?

“It’s nothing. Just…stress.”

She places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Listen. I don’t know what’s going on but I _do_ know that you’ve been more busy than usual with the band. You’re the last person who needs to be told to have fun, but please just _breathe._ ”

She looks him in the eyes. It’s the most earnestly she’s ever looked at him in all his years of knowing her.

“Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

He promises. And they move on.

They carry on talking for a little longer.

Lottie glances at the clock on the wall, eyes widening when she sees she’s stayed way longer than she intended to.

“Shit. I was supposed to be meeting up with the girls for practice by now,” she says, scrambling to gather her belongings. “I guess that means I’m off for real this time.”

Bobby helps her get all her things, thanking her again for breakfast, and walks her to the door to bid her farewell.

She starts to walk off, waving as she leaves.

“Hey, Lottie?” he calls out to her, before she can go too far.

“Yeah?” she answers, turning around.

“Knock ‘em dead.”

She smiles widely.

“I always do.”

The crowd for this show was unreal.

Paisley Cuddle played this venue once, when the band was still in its infancy, and the amount of people that turned out to see them was nothing like this.

The club didn’t even look like it could hold this many people.

Good for the bands playing tonight, but surely this has to be some sort of fire hazard. 

Bobby texted Storm as soon as he got through the doors to let her know he was there. She texted him to let him know that she knew. She could see him.

He looked up as soon as he got the message and searched the crowd until his eyes met hers for the first time since the day they met.

His breath comes in small fragments, his heart racing at the sight of her flashing him the cheesiest grin in existence.

After months of sneaking glances at the pictures on her Instagram page, he can say with full confidence that the pictures really don’t do her justice.

Especially not her smile.

He waves at her, a distance away, and she waves back and motions for him to join her.

He weaves through the crowd of people, excusing himself and apologizing whenever he bumps into anybody.

He finally reaches her, and, wow, he doesn’t remember her being that tall.

Bobby was definitely taller than her when they met, even if only by a few inches, yet here he was tilting his head to look her in the eyes.

“Wow, you’ve gotten so tall since I last saw you!” he jokes when he greets her. “What’s your secret?”

“A balanced diet, 9 hours of sleep, and – I cannot stress this enough – platform boots,” she says, emphasizing her sentence by kicking up one of her feet to showcase her Very Tall Boot and trying very hard not to lose her balance.

_Ah, so that’s it._

“So where’s the rest of the band?” Bobby asks, looking around for the other members. “Unless it’s a one-woman act now, in which case I applaud you for being able to play all those instruments at the same time.”

“Wow, you’re so funny,” Storm deadpans. “They’re just this way. Come say hi,” she says.

She grabs his hand, a spark of electricity shooting straight through him at her touch, and leads him to where the rest of the band members are conversing among themselves.

“Yo!” Storm calls out to them as she approaches. “Look who came to join us.”

Lottie greets him warmly with a hug and Marisol regards him with an imperceptible nod of the head.

Not nearly as hostile as she was when they met, but still maintaining an unapproachable level of coolness.

_Please tell me she doesn’t still hate me for some reason._

Moving on. He turns his attention to the singer.

“I actually don’t think we’ve met before,” he says when he acknowledges her.

“No, hun, I don’t believe we have,” she responds, extending a well-manicured hand his way. “I’m Hope.”

“Nice to meet you!” he says as he shakes her hand. “I’m Bobby.”

“Oh, Bobby!” she exclaims in recognition. “I know you, you sing in Noah’s band!”

“You know Noah?” he asks.

Huge fucking mistake, apparently.

The other three members groan as if to collectively say _oh my god, please don’t get her started._

“Yeah, I know him,” Hope says, smiling to herself and ignoring her bandmates. Judging by her expression, it would seem that she more than just “knows” him.

“I met him after that first show and he was just…” she has a far-off look in her eyes as she fondly recalls her first encounter with Noah.

“The _sweetest._ An absolute gent. You know what he told me when we met? He said I sound like Amy Lee. _The_ Amy Lee! Of Evanescence.”

“Yeah, babes, we all know who Amy Lee is,” Marisol mutters.

“Then you know how big a deal it is that he thinks I sound like her,” Hope responds, brushing off Marisol’s obvious annoyance.

“Hope, _everybody_ says you sound like Amy Lee. That’s the first thing anyone says when they compliment your singing.” Lottie grumbles. “You shouldn’t be freaking out over some guy stating the obvious.”

Hope scoffs. “I get what you’re saying babes, but he’s not just some guy. He’s different.”

Lottie rolls her eyes. “I thought I told you to tread carefully. Look, I know it probably hurts to hear, but you’re my friend and I don’t wanna see you make the same mistakes. _Again._ ”

Hope physically recoils when Lottie says “again”.

“I’m _not_ gonna make the same mistakes,” she says with a frown. “Appreciate the concern, hun, but I’m a grown-ass woman. I think I can trust my own judgement.”

“Whatever you say, Hope,” Lottie says. “Just wouldn’t want a repeat of what happened last time.”

Hope sneers, shoulders postured, ready to defend herself as Lottie scowls and clenches her jaw.

Before either can get another word out, Storm throws her head back and makes a noise that can only be described as sounding like a drowned cat with smoker’s lung going “ _UGGGHHHHH_ ”.

That gets everyone’s attention.

“Who the fuck _cares_?” she groans. “The only thing that should be on our minds right now is putting on a good show. Not this petty bullshit. What’s the one rule we all swore to follow when we signed up for this band?”

Storm looks expectantly between the two of them.

“No bad vibes,” they mumble in unison.

“Exactly. Cool it and fall back for now, hm?”

They look at each other. Then they look away.

And they fall back. For now.

“Fine,” they both answer begrudgingly.

“Good. Because I’d rather focus on the show and the party. I don’t know about y’all, but I’m excited to have fun with my girl,” she says as she wraps her arms around Marisol’s waist and hugs her from behind. “You’ll save me a dance, right?”

“About that…” Marisol murmurs, turning around to face her girlfriend. 

“I can’t make it tonight. And before you get upset,” she says, cutting Storm off before she can protest.

“I _really_ wanted to. Believe me. But I’m swamped with assignments and I can’t get any more extensions this term. I have to leave as soon as the show’s over if I want to make the deadline.”

Jesus, Bobby feels awful for being relieved. He wasn’t looking forward to possibly being on the receiving end of anymore of Marisol’s drunken, shady remarks, but Storm’s definitely not gonna be happy about this. 

Storm’s shoulders slump slightly, looking visibly deflated. She straightens up as soon as she realizes her posture's off, forcing an aloof expression.

“The price I pay for dating a law student, I guess,” she replies with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ll have enough fun for the both of us.”

Marisol picks up on the sadness in her voice and interlocks her own fingers with Storm’s.

“How about I make it up to you later?” Marisol says, pressing her lips affectionately to Storm’s knuckles.

“And just how do you plan on doing that?” Storm questions, quirking an inquisitive eyebrow.

Marisol leans in close to Storm’s ear and drops her voice to a low whisper.

Bobby couldn’t hear a word she was saying, but it must have been something real scandalous to make Storm flush the way she does. 

Marisol pulls back and gives Storm a mischievous, knowing grin.

“Yeah?” she smirks, eyes focused on Storm’s lips.

“Y-yeah,” Storm exhales, voice rising in pitch.

 _God damn, this girl is Big Dick Energy personified,_ Bobby thinks, in awe at how this small woman could make someone like Storm melt so easily.

“We get it, you guys are in love,” Lottie quips jokingly, prompting Storm to stick her tongue out at her and Marisol to flip her the bird.

Marisol’s phone rings. She rolls her eyes when she reads the caller ID, muttering “I can’t catch a fucking break, can I?” and excuses herself before answering the phone and walking off.

The rest of the group carry on chatting politely, though Hope looks like she’d rather be anywhere else.

Before the conversation can literally bore her to death, she spots Noah, leaning against a wall on the opposite end of the club with a drink in hand. Gary and Rocco are with him, the former in a conversation with Noah and the guitarist of one of the other bands and the latter chatting up a woman in a My Chemical Romance tee.

“Shut _up,_ I didn’t know he’d be here tonight!” Hope squeals, half-elated, half-anxious.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I invited the rest of the guys,” Bobby replies absentmindedly. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah. It’s more than okay,” Hope says, grinning and nervously smoothing out her shirt.

Noah catches her looking and coolly nods in her direction.

“Looks like that’s my cue to leave,” she says. “Lottie, come be my wing-woman.”

Lottie sighs exasperatedly.

“Fine. Only because I wanna know what the deal is with those two,” she says, gesturing towards Gary and Rocco. “But you owe me.”

Hope and Lottie take their leave, leaving Bobby alone with Storm.

Neither quite know what to say.

Oh god, he was dreading this moment. When it would be just the two of them, interacting face to face, no buffers in the form of memes and internet humor.

They lock eyes for a split-second, breaking eye contact quickly when each realizes the other is looking. Bobby taps his foot nervously in tune to the song playing.

Storm directs her attention to the bar, the one place in the club that hasn’t been completely overtaken by a huge amount of people, and looks back at Bobby.

She cocks her head, grinning.

“Thirsty?”

They crack open the cheap beers they ordered, leaning against the bar and listening to the music.

“So,” Storm says with a sly smile. “Lottie, huh? Didn’t see that one coming.”

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” Bobby answers nonchalantly with a sip of his drink.

“You’re such a bad liar. I’ve seen the way you look at each other,” she says, nodding her head across the room towards Lottie, in a conversation with Rocco and Gary that appears to be more hand gestures than actual talking. “And, y’know, she’s my friend so of course she told me y’all had a thing.”

“I’m guessing you have some thoughts about that.”

She shrugs. “I honestly thought she’d eat you alive, but she’s been way less frosty since y’all started banging.”

Bobby furrows his eyebrows skeptically at Storm.

“Come on!” she asserts, nudging him as Lottie laughs loudly at something Gary just said. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed a difference.”

“Alright, maybe she _has_ been a little less cynical these days,” Bobby remarks with another long swallow of his drink, thinking back to Lottie making him breakfast and giving him advice.

“Mmhm,” Storm hums in agreement. “Good dick’ll do that to ya.”

Bobby chokes on his drink, doing a literal spit-take that just narrowly misses a guy’s mohawk, making Storm cackle.

“Pardon?!” Bobby sputters, laughing hard himself. “Good _what_?”

Storm, laughing so much she can barely form a coherent sentence, can only manage to shout “ _DICK!_ ” to the confusion of random passersby, making both her and Bobby laugh harder than they thought possible.

“Ah, _fuck_ ,” she wheezes, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Your _face-”_ she coughs.

Bobby clutches his stomach, saying something along the lines of “ _I can’t fucking breathe, I’m gonna cry”_.

Storm composes herself first and catches her breath after a long while of hysterical laughter, biting her lip to keep from another outburst. Bobby tries to follow her lead, choking back his own laughter and attempting to appear more solemn.

“Hey,” she starts, trying to look as serious as possible and faltering when she sees Bobby struggling to keep a straight face too. She howls with laughter even louder than before and he can’t help but start laughing again either.

What a sight these two must be right now. Anybody stopping by the bar looks very confused as to why these two idiots are losing their shit.

They stop laughing eventually, gasping for air, both uttering some variant of “my fucking stomach, man”.

“ _Hey,_ ” she finally manages to get out when both of them are (mostly) done laughing. “Don’t worry. She hasn’t said anything specific about your dick.”

“Good to know?”

She shrugs, simpering. “Hey, whatever you’ve been doing, keep it up. She seems happy.”

Lottie, ironically, doesn’t look very happy when they look back at her. 

They were laughing so hard they didn’t even notice Marisol walk back in and pull Lottie and Hope aside for a conversation. All of them look pretty stressed out.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Storm asks, craning her neck to look at her bandmates.

“I dunno, but it doesn’t look too good.”

Not too good indeed, judging by their worried faces and the urgency with which they rush to the bar to talk to Storm.

“We’ve got a problem,” Marisol says when she reaches the bar.

“What kind of problem?” Storm asks.

“We don’t have enough songs in our setlist.”

Storm's face contorts in confusion.

“Yeah, we do. They said it was a twenty-minute set. We have _exactly_ enough new material for twenty minutes of stage time.”

“Yeah, no, we just double-checked. Our _usual_ set is twenty minutes. We’re headlining, so it’s forty-five.”

Storm exhales sharply and rubs her temples, annoyed but determined to fix this.

“No big deal. We’ll just play some of our old stuff.”

Marisol shakes her head. “I did the math on this one, we still don’t have enough music for the entire set. We’d need at least one more song.”

“But we don’t _have_ one more song just lying around.”

“So what do we do?”

“I don’t know! Can’t we just do a cover of ‘Rebel Girl’ or something and call it a day?”

“No! No ‘Rebel Girl’!” Lottie exclaims. “We’re not Bikini Kill. We’re not a cover band. We’re Beelzebabe. We play _our_ music at _our_ show.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Marisol asks.

“Fuck if I know!”

“Oh my god, we’re so screwed,” Storm groans.

“Focus!” Marisol says. “We need to think.”

A tense silence passes between the girls as they _try not to panic_ and brainstorm solutions. Hope suddenly perks up.

“I’ve got it,” she says. “I’ve got an original song of ours that we can do tonight that no one’s heard before.”

The rest of the band looks confused at first.

Then, one by one, they all realize what she’s suggesting.

“Oh no,” Storm mutters.

“Oh _yes_ ,” says Hope.

“No!” Lottie asserts, shaking her head. “You said you scrapped that song! We’re _not_ doing it.”

“Why not? I know all the words _and_ we’ve rehearsed it before.”

“We rehearsed it _once._ For fun. To humor you.”

“And it sounded good!”

“The _instrumentals_ were good. The lyrics were _way_ too much.”

“And it doesn’t even match our usual style,” Storm interjects.

“What other choice do we have at this point?” Hope asks, the other girls falling silent at the question.

They look at each other, eyebrows knit with frustration and doubt. They don’t like it, but they understand what they need to do.

Storm groans, throwing back the rest of her drink with alarming speed. 

“God, I hope we don’t end up regretting this.”

She quickly bids Bobby goodbye and follows the girls as they leave the bar.

 _...Tonight's gonna be an interesting one_.

Bobby finishes his beer in solitude. He’s about to get up from his spot and hang with his own band when a familiar-looking woman sits down a few seats away from him.

She’s got her head buried in her phone, only looking up to order a drink and scope out the place like she’s searching for someone. She looks kind of sad.

_Sad at a concert? Well, that just won’t do._

“Are you okay?” Bobby calls out to her, making the woman jolt a little as she’s snapped out of her train of thought.

“Sorry if I startled you!” he says, holding his hands up innocently. “You just look a bit lost is all.”

The woman relaxes when she sees who addressed her.

“No, not lost, just waiting for a friend,” she responds, receiving her glass of wine from the bartender. “Mind keeping me company until she shows up?”

Don't have to ask him twice. Bobby gets up and sits directly beside her, eliciting a grateful smile from the woman.

“Thanks. You could probably tell this isn’t my usual scene.”

He pretends to be shocked.

“You mean to tell me the girl wearing Chanel and drinking merlot at a punk show _isn’t_ a regular here?”

She giggles, relaxing the slightest bit more.

“Nope, not a regular at all. Just feeling a little strange since I haven’t been to a place like this in ages,” she says, looking around at the other patrons. “I’m just glad I found a friendly face.”

“Hey, a lot of these faces are friendlier than you think,” he says. “The people at these shows may look mean, but I promise we don’t bite.”

A scowling man whose body appears to be more ink and piercings than skin stalks angrily past, stopping briefly to glare at them before walking off.

“…I promise most of us don’t bite.”

The woman laughs.

“Where are my manners?” she says before she offers Bobby her hand. “Priya.” That name definitely rings a bell.

“Bobby,” he says, taking her hand. “Do I know you from somewhere? I swear I’ve seen your face before.”

Priya shrugs.

“I doubt it,” she says. “I only know one other person here.”

“Try me.”

“One of my old flatmates. Her band’s headlining and we wanted to support her.”

“We?”

“Yeah, the other girl I'm waiting for. Our other old flatmate. You wouldn’t happen to know a Chelsea, would you?”

Then it clicks.

“OH!” he answers a little too loudly, even for a crowded club. “You’re Storm’s friend.”

She nods, taking a long sip from her wine glass.

“I’m guessing you actually know Storm and you’re not just a super huge Beelzebabe fanboy.”

“Mighty bold of you to assume I can’t be both,” he banters.

“Apologies, my mistake," she says, appreciative of the banter. "So how do you know Storm?”

“Lottie’s a mutual friend, she introduced us.”

“I see,” she responds, expression growing cold. “I’ve gotta say, you don’t seem like the type of company she would keep around.”

“Uh-oh, I’m sensing some history there.”

“Nothing personal,” she says.“She only replaced me in the band.” The look on her face would suggest there's more to the story, but Bobby decides not to press her for more information. It's already wild enough that the glamorous woman in front of him used to play electric guitar in a punk band. 

“Wait, _you_ were the old guitarist?” he asks.

“Surprised?”

“…Yeah, a bit.”

“No, I get it,” she says with a dry laugh and another dainty sip of her wine. “Sometimes I can barely believe I was in the band myself.”

“Why’d you leave the band? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

She shrugs. “A couple reasons really. It’s a long story.”

“Good thing I’ve got time to listen. Lay it on me.”

Priya smiles wryly at him.

“You’re a strange one, you know that?”

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself and staring into her drink.

“Anxiety for starters. I can stand in front of cameras for work all day, but put me on stage in front of a bunch of people and I freeze up.”

She skirts her fingernail around the edge of her half-empty glass, slender fingers figure-skating along the rim. 

“And to be honest, I always felt a little out of my element. The rest of the girls were so _young_ when we started the band. Storm was only 19, she was practically a baby. They had all these innocent dreams about making it big and there I was feeling all this pressure about needing to succeed before I got washed up or something.”

She chuckles, eyes glassy, lost in memories past.

“It’s kind of funny looking back, thinking 26 was ‘old’, but I guess I always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Do you miss it?” Bobby asks.

She shakes her head, smiling to herself.

“ _No_ ," she says with confident finality. "I mean, it was fun while it lasted, sure, but I was never really cut out for that sort of thing. I _like_ where I am in life right now. And it’s pretty fun playing cheerleader with Chelsea.”

She looks off, clearly distracted by something…or _someone_.

Bobby swivels around on his seat to follow her line of sight. Priya’s got her eye on Noah and by the looks of it, he’s got his eye on her too. Bobby turns back around to face Priya.

“Ooh, somebody's got a crush,” he singsongs.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she says, still subtly making eyes at Noah.

 _Bullshit_ , it's nothing, the way they're looking at each other. Looks like it’s time for Bobby to bust out the old matchmaker skills and get to work. 

“Y’know he’s gonna be at the party later," he says. "If you’re interested you could always talk to him then.”

Noah smirks at Priya, giving off those handsome, mysterious stranger vibes that makes girls fall hard for him. Priya’s definitely not immune to his charm.

“Hm. I’ll definitely consider it,” Priya replies, finally breaking eye contact with Noah to check her phone.

“Gosh, I just talked about myself this whole time," she says. "Sorry about that,” she says, looking genuinely sorry.

“Don’t be! You’re an interesting person to listen to.”

She bites back the smile creeping up on her face. 

“Well, aren’t you sweet?”

Priya’s phone chimes with a notification. “That’s probably Chelsea now,” she says as she unlocks her phone.

“Yup. Looks like she’s…lost. And she wants me to find her.” She sighs despite the small smile that tugs at the corner of her lips.

Priya tips the bartender and stands up from her seat. “It’s been real, Bobby. I really hope we run into each other later on.”

They say their farewells and she leaves to find her friend. 

Bobby leaves so he can meet up with his boys and get a good view of the stage.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” the announcer wails into the microphone.

 _“Woooo!”_ goes the crowd of excited concertgoers.

“Alright, that’s what I like to hear!" says the announcer, pumping her fist enthusiastically into the air to rile up the audience. "We’ve got a real treat for you tonight! Put your hands together for Beelzebabe!”

The crowd cheers as the announcer bounces off the stage, mouthing “good luck” at the girls while they ready their instruments.

Hope takes to the mic oozing all kinds of confidence she didn't have before, adjusting the stand before she speaks.

“We’re Beelzebabe and we’re here to rock your fucking world. This new one’s called ‘Glass Bones and Paper Skin’*.”

She turns to the other members and they all nod before Marisol counts off with her drumsticks.

The song starts with a low, jaunty bassline that Hope sings along to. Soon enough Marisol and Lottie join in with drums and guitar. The song quickly picks up volume and speed, getting louder and faster as the song continues. Before long all the members are playing at a near-deafening level as Hope shouts the lyrics.

The hundred or so people filling the venue form a jumping monolith, bouncing in sync with one another to the beat.

There’s hardly enough room, but a couple audience members are able to get a small pit going at the front. Bobby decides to sit this one out, but he can still feel that familiar surge of energy as he watches others thrash to the music.

The song closes and they seamlessly transition from the end of ‘Glass Bones and Paper Skin’ to the beginning of ‘Bad Bitch Manifesto’, a fan favorite that makes the concertgoers clap and cheer in unison when they hear that iconic bassline.

Their set continues, playing hit after hit, blending the old music with the new. The girls are rocking the hell out of this show. They look more winded than usual playing a set over twice as long as usual, but they still play as vibrant and lively as ever.

Marisol pounds on the drums, Lottie shreds on the guitar, Storm glides across the strings of her bass, and Hope harmonizes, every individual attribute mobilizing a powerful musical machine.

The crowd can't get enough. Forty minutes wasn't nearly long enough, these people were here to rock the fuck out. 

“You guys have been amazing!” Hope cries when their set nears the end.

The crowd roars, pumped and anticipating the final song.

“We’re gonna switch things up a little with the last one,” she says, to the bewilderment and curiosity of the eager crowd. That could mean a million and one different things and nobody knew what to anticipate.

"This one's '[Love Bites](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wvX1E_uYhs)' and it's dedicated to a special someone."

The other members look at Hope apprehensively and ready their instruments.

Marisol counts off slowly.

The members with instruments strike up a slow, sultry ballad. It’s a significant dip in energy from all the previous songs. Disappointing for everybody that was ready to absolutely fuck some shit up, but the audience decides to go along with it for now. The pit has closed, the upbeat dancing and flailing replaced by mellow swaying.

Hope seems to be lost in the melody, swaying herself as she begins to sing.

“ _Your kiss beckons me closer_

_Punch drunk from the heat of your smolder_

_Baby it's making me crazy_ ”

It’s not a bad song _at all_ , but Bobby could tell why they wouldn’t want to put it in their set. He could especially tell why they wouldn’t want to close out with it.

Storm usually writes all their stuff. She confirmed it herself when Bobby asked, but anyone who knows her would have been able to guess as much. The girl had a taste for anarchy. Her exact words when asked to describe what she writes about were “pretty girls and revolution and pretty girls starting revolutions”.

This song, however, was very… _fluffy_. Well, as fluffy as a Beelzebabe song could possibly get. It was still good, no doubt, but lyrically it was a far cry from their usual goth-punk-grunge-Riot Grrrl sound.

Storm looks bored out of her goddamn mind as she disinterestedly plucks the strings on her guitar.

Deciding that this number could do with a little livening up, she looks at Bobby and pantomimes gagging when the lyrics get a little too mushy.

He stifles a laugh, glad that she could at least have a little fun with this song despite the disappointingly simple bassline.

“ _Your kiss, lethal and potent_

_Lovestruck, heat of the moment_

_Lately I dream of you, baby”_

Hope’s not being subtle at all about the subject of her written affection, eyes trained on Noah for the entirety of the song, as if trying to put him under a spell.

_Christ, she’s really laying it on thick._

This sure was an intimate song for someone who’s known the guy for all of three months. They must be closer than they let on.

Bobby peers over at Noah, standing not too far away, to gauge his reaction.

At first, he looks uncomfortable.

Then he looks…flattered? No, flattered isn’t the right word. It’s more like…complacent acceptance. Like this fate of his was inevitable. 

The band plays the rest of the song, the members with instruments looking disinterested the longer it goes on and looking relieved when the song finally ends.

The audience applauds, though some seem confused and a little bummed out that Beelzebabe didn’t go out with more of a bang.

Bobby hangs with Gary, Noah, and Rocco after the show, waiting for the rest of the girls so they can head to the party together.

Hope and Lottie walk out first, their earlier spat seemingly patched up as they chat amicably.

“Oi!” Gary calls out to the them. “You lot ready to party?”

“Yeah, Storm should’ve sent me the address by now," Lottie replies, reaching into her jacket pocket.

Confused when she can’t find her phone, she searches her other pockets twice over, cursing under her breath when they all come up empty.

“ _Shit!_ I think I lost my phone somewhere inside.”

“No worries,” Rocco says. “We can wait for you until you find it.”

“Who knows how long that’ll take? Just go on without me,” Lottie sighs heavily. She begins to walk back towards the club, stopping by the door to ask Hope to help her look for her phone.

Hope begins to protest, stopping short when Lottie mouths “you owe me” and follows Lottie back inside.

“We’ll see you at the party later, right?” Hope calls to Noah.

“Yeah, we'll catch you then,” he answers, waving her off as she disappears into the club with Lottie.

Looks like the guys are on their own now.

“So…do any of you know how to get to the party?” Gary asks.

The others shake their heads.

“I can take you!” a woman’s voice accosts them.

It’s Priya, walking out of the club looking way more jovial than she did at the bar. She’s radiant as she struts down the sidewalk to talk to the boys.

“I’m friends with the hosts of the party. I can take you all there if you want,” she reiterates.

Noah brightens when he sees her, casually running his hands through his hair.

“Yeah,” he says. “That sounds great.”

“Awesome,” she says, smiling the tiniest bit wider when she looks at him. “Follow me.”

All the boys except Bobby follow Priya as she walks on.

“Hey, mate, you coming?” Gary shouts through cupped hands, when he's at least a few yards away.

“Nah, I’m gonna wait for Storm,” Bobby replies. “I’ll catch up with you all later.”

Gary nods and heads off with the rest of the group.

Bobby waits another minute or two before Storm and Marisol stride hand-in-hand out of the venue, Storm looking frustrated while Marisol looks thoroughly amused.

“What?” Storm pouts. “I thought I sounded pretty good that time.”

“Storm, _no_ ,” Marisol says, stifling a laugh. “Your pronunciation’s near perfect, but that entire sentence was backwards. Like, it was literally in reverse. I’m actually kind of impressed.”

Storm huffs, perking up when she sees Bobby waiting for her.

“Yo, Bobby!” she says as she walks closer to him. “You ready to party or what?”

“I’m actually more interested in knowing what you guys are talking about.”

“Impromptu Spanish lessons,” Marisol answers.

“More like me _trying my best_ to learn Spanish and my girlfriend clowning me for it,” Storm retorts in jest. “Here I am humbly asking her for help yet all she can do is laugh at my plight.”

“Forgive me for laughing, but you’d _think_ being a Puerto Rican from one of the most densely populated Spanish-speaking cities in America, you wouldn’t be so bad at it,” she replies, quickly kissing Storm’s cheek.

“ _Half_ Puerto Rican,” Storm says, nose wrinkling. “That means it should only be _half_ decent.”

“It’s not even a quarter decent.”

“…‘A’ for effort?” Storm asks, dramatically fluttering her lashes to try to earn her sympathy.

“Not a chance.”

Storm exhales hard and slumps her shoulders dramatically, earning a playful eye roll from her girlfriend.

“If it makes you feel better, my Patois is worse than my Spanish,” Storm says as she stands up straight.

“It makes me feel worse, actually, considering you’re closer to the Jamaican half of your family,” Marisol replies.

“That makes two of us then," Bobby says to Storm. "I’m super close to my dad’s side and I don't know Patois either.”

She smiles appreciatively at Bobby, glad that _somebody_ understands her struggle.

“He gets it!" she exclaims. "Maybe we should start a club or something.”

"What with just the two of us? Sounds fun."

"Loads," she says, tossing back loose strands of her hair. 

“Hey, you know any good Jamaican restaurants we could hit up?" she asks him. "Feels like I’ve been to every single one in the city but none of them can do it like back home.”

“That’s because you haven’t tried my cooking.”

She looks at him quizically. 

“I thought you were a baker.”

“Among other things! I’m a man of many culinary talents and I swear I’ll make you the best Jamaican food you’ve ever tasted.”

“Ooh, I’m gonna have to stop you right there, McKenzie. I'm from New York and the food there's pretty fuckin' spectacular, my guy. Yours might be good, but it can't be the best.”

Oh, those are fighting words.

“Pfft," Bobby scoffs. "I bet I can out-cook all of New York."

Storm takes a step back, floored that he would even have the guts to say such a thing about her hometown, the food capital of the entire country. The nerve of this man.

"I don't think you understand what you're saying," she says moving in closer, voice lowered as if letting him in on a secret, eyes growing wide and cartoonishly serious. "This is New York Jamaican food you're talking about. Our oxtail is superb. Our plantains are exquisite. Our jerk chicken is _god tier."_

Bobby shakes his head, expression hardening to match her faux-seriousness.

"There isn't a New Yorker out there that can out-jerk my meat,” he says with an entirely straight face.

That breaks Storm, making her laugh almost as hard as she did earlier. 

“ _Dude_ , don’t fucking phrase it like that!” she laughs, pulling a comically disgusted face as she pretends like she’s about to be sick.

"What?" Bobby laughs. "What's so weird about jerking your meat? Everybody jerks their meat!"

Storm's shoulders shake as her body's racked with laughter. "I know what you want me to say, but you're not gonna make me. I refuse."

He knows she's got a good jerk joke, deep down inside of her just waiting to come out.

To add fuel to the already-laughing fire, Bobby, almost manically, adds "I'll out-jerk all of New York if I have to! No one jerks it better than I do!"

She cracks. Storm finally gives in.

"Fuck you, no one out-jerks our meat!" she howls, the ridiculousness of the phrase sending Bobby into hysterics along with her. 

The sudden mutual realization that Marisol is still there, watching them crack up over the dumbest joke ever, cuts their laughing fit short. 

Bobby and Storm straighten up, coughing as they recover.

“Well, I guess I should be going now," Marisol says, lips pursed into a thin line. "Have fun you two. And try to stay out of trouble, hm?” she addresses to Storm specifically.

“...No promises,” she replies before she kisses Marisol goodbye and watches her walk off.

She and Bobby watch Marisol walk away until she's no longer in their line of sight.

“And then there were two,” Storm mutters to herself.

She turns to Bobby.

"Hey, Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"For your sake and mine, we gotta lay off the dick jokes. At least until the party's over."

"...No promises."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how are you all holding up? hope yall are staying safe, healthy and clean (and keeping yourself entertained if you're stuck in the house lol. quarantine made me actually practice playing my bass instead of just writing about it)
> 
> as always, thanks for reading and giving feedback! this was kind of a long one, but i had a lot of fun writing this chapter! i hope yall had fun reading it :)


	4. something in the air

Bobby’s first thought as he crossed the threshold into the swanky lobby of Chelsea’s apartment building was, _Whoa_.

His second thought was, _Are we at the right building?_

The place was impressive to say the absolute least.

He expected as much upon approaching the building, aggrandizing and ostentatious, its contemporary architecture out of place in comparison to every other surrounding building, eager to let any and all onlookers know, “Yes, our tenants have money. No, you cannot afford to live here and you never will. Die mad about it”.

If the building itself didn’t give it away, the visibly wealthy inhabitants, strewn about the entrance and lobby who all but physically turned their noses up at him and Storm as they passed through did. Annoyed as they could be that yet another pair of broke young people were gonna be partying it up on the top floor of their Respectable Apartment Building.

What struck him as odd though was that most of the tenants were young too. He’d come to expect this kind of behavior from rich assholes two or three times his age, but these people had to be in their twenties and thirties, same as them. If he were to hazard a guess as to how they could live somewhere like this, he’d say they were either “Rise-and-Grind-The-Hustle-Never-Stops” entrepreneurs or corporate heirs living off of daddy’s money. He knew the type and they fit the bill extremely well.

Bar the uppity rich people, the place was fucking _nice_. Bobby may not be an expert at interior design or whatever, but he’s seen enough home improvement shows to know it looked good. Sleek white surfaces and geometric monochrome wall décor and chairs that looked more functional as abstract art pieces than furniture.

No expense was spared, that’s for sure. Like the contractors threw a couple billion at the architects and builders and just said, “Let ‘em know who lives here. Let ‘em fuckin’ know.”

The front desk receptionist does not ask for any kind of I.D. or verification, only gives Storm a precursory nod and grin (“It’s cool, Deborah’s seen me come here a million times,” she reassures Bobby when he raises concerns about security) as they make their way towards the elevators, their shoes squeaking across the pristine floor a little too loudly for some of the residents’ tastes.

As they approach the elevators, they pass a woman in athleisure who tries her best not to frown at them as she emerges from an adjacent stairwell.

“Friendly people living here,” Bobby remarks sarcastically as the woman adjusts her AirPods and jogs out of the front entrance.

“The _friendliest._ ” Storm says, rolling her eyes as she presses the button to summon the elevator to the first floor. “Makes you wanna just throw your guitar away and come live here.”

“I’ll say. Think it’s too late for me to drop the music thing and decorate houses?” he jokes as they both watch the digital counter above the doors tick all the way down to one.

“Living in a place like this is more of a perk of dating a trust fund baby,” she replies cynically as the elevator doors open and they board together.

Bobby hums in response and stuffs his hands in his pockets, leaning against the far wall as Storm goes to search the panel on the inside of the door for the right button.

“On a totally unrelated note…know any single trust fund babies you wanna set me up with?”

Storm chuckles dryly in response.

“Pretty sure fucking a rich kid would technically be selling out,” she says, finding and hitting the button she was looking for. “Which wouldn’t be very punk of you.”

“Can’t fault me for asking. Survival under capitalism and all that, y’know?”

“Pffft. If you live here, I’m pretty sure you _win_ at capitalism.”

The doors close and Storm posts up next to Bobby in a stance identical to his as they begin their ascent. It’s a fairly long way up.

A quick glance upwards out of pure boredom has Bobby notice that the ceiling is a mirror. He points his phone to the ceiling, intent on taking a fun little overhead selfie. Storm turns her face up so she can give the camera a peace sign before he does the same and snaps the picture. He’s sure to tag her in it before he posts it to his story.

The ride up seems to last forever. The only indicator that they’re moving closer to their destination is the thumping bass of Megan Thee Stallion’s “Cash Shit” reverberating through the walls, increasing in volume as they move up in floors.

Just before they arrive at Chelsea’s floor, Storm nudges him lightly with her elbow. “Heads up, Chelsea’s parties can be a little…extra.”

“I can handle extra.”

She smirks knowingly, smoothing out the wrinkles in her shirt before the elevator finally comes to a stop on the top floor.

The doors open to what may be the most over-the-top living space Bobby’s ever seen in person.

The music floods his ears instantly as he looks out at a penthouse apartment that resembles a state-of-the-art Playboy mansion from one of the Property Brother’s wet dreams (or perhaps wet nightmares would be the more appropriate term).

There’s just so much _space._ Yeah, realistically, an apartment that takes up the entire top floor would have tons of room but Jesus Christ, there’s just so much of it.

Despite the vast space, the sheer amount of people in attendance has everyone packed wall to wall (and even on the balcony if they’re feelin’ a little dangerous) as they writhe along to the beat of the music, a large amount of people in nearly every visible room of the capacious penthouse.

It’s hard to make out without really paying attention, but there’s no real coherent theme that ties any of the rooms together. Some areas were more well-put than others; it was definitely easy to tell which rooms were put together by a professional and which ones were put together by a guy in his twenties with no taste and way too much money.

The kitchen, for example, is _gorgeous_ under the litter from the party: stainless steel appliances reflecting the blues and greens and purples of the flashing lights, granite countertops and a matching island littered with all sorts of cups and half-empty bottles. Bobby nearly has to stop himself from salivating thinking about all the goods he could bake in that double oven.

The sitting room, however, is the pinnacle of tacky nouveau riche aesthetic; a mess of lavish furnishing that clashes with the modern architecture. Chaise lounges and armchairs with velvet upholstery draped in silks and furs that have been pushed to the far ends of the room to make way for the DJ booth and makeshift dancefloor, a marble bust (for some god damn reason) that has been amiably topped with a festive little party hat, and, of course, a big ass chandelier because _why the hell not_?

It’s hard to tell if it’s kitschy and ironic or just plain ugly. Either way, it definitely cost way too much.

Being a broke twenty-something living in a big city, it was very difficult for Bobby to parse what he was seeing. On the one hand, it’s the apex of the kind of capitalist indulgence he’d grown to despise, but on the _other_ hand these marble floors are fucking _choice_.

Oh, how hard it is to repress that ever-so-human lust for shiny things. The song choice is just the cherry on top of the ludicrously exorbitant cake.

“This extra enough for you?” Storm asks before motioning him to follow her.

They’re barely five steps through the front door before he hears a high-pitched screech, deafening over the blaring music, and the next thing he knows, someone’s nearly tackled Storm.

“Storm!” she squeals, bouncing excitedly. “You’re like a proper rock star now!”

She notices Bobby out of the corner of her eye, standing awkwardly to the side and releases her grip on Storm to address him.

“Oh my days, where are my manners? I’m Chelsea!”

She doesn’t even go in for a handshake, just straight up hugs him on the first encounter. She’s way stronger than she looks, a lesson Bobby has to learn the hard way as she squeezes him in a crushing – albeit affectionate – hug.

“B-Bobby,” he manages to choke out.

“Yes, yes, Bobby!” she exclaims enthusiastically. “Storm told me all about you, says you’re hilarious.”

“I mean ‘hilarious’ is pushing it, Chels,” Storm says, crossing her arms.

“Nope, I’m hilarious, it’s already settled,” Bobby replies earning a groan from Storm.

“Oh, I can already tell you and me are gonna be the best of friends, I just know it!” Chelsea exclaims.

“Priya came around earlier and introduced me to your band,” she continues. “They should be around here somewhere. A bit hard to see where they are with all these bloody people around,” she remarks, scoping out the dancing, drunken mass all around her.

There’s no sign of the other ¾ of Paisley Cuddle, just a bunch of handsy couples, somebody throwing up in a houseplant, a group of people doing a keg stand, and, of course, ten million people dancing.

“I’ve been to a lot of parties, Chels, but you really went all out with this one,” says Storm.

“I know! We were thinking of keeping it lowkey, but how often does your bestie headline their first show?”

“Where were you by the way? Didn’t scare you off or anything did we?”

“No, not at all! I got lost on the way and had to have Priya come find me, but before I could even watch you, Lucas called and told me there was some kind of emergency. Something about the music?” She waves her hand dismissively. “But everything’s-”

Their conversation is halted by the sound of crashing from far off and the stomping of two heavy pairs of boots. The stomping grows closer until two black-clad women approach Chelsea, looking all kinds of panicked. The more flustered of the two speaks up first.

“We totally didn’t break your expensive looking vase-”

“She broke it,” the other interrupts, pointing an accusatory finger at her accomplice.

“Dude!” The one who supposedly broke the vase elbows her friend hard, trying to be inconspicuous as she addresses Chelsea. “We didn’t break anything! But say we hypothetically _did,_ how screwed would we be if we wanted to replace it?”

Chelsea, not showing the slightest bit of concern for her potentially broken vase, smiles sweetly before replying, “Don’t even worry about it.”

Both of the women blink quizzically at Chelsea.

“Seriously?”

“Yup! Enjoy the party! Oh, but if you _did_ hypothetically break a vase, I would hypothetically need you to clean up the shards so no one gets hurt. Hypothetically,” Chelsea adds while exaggeratedly winking and nudging.

The two girls gape at each other before nodding and running off in the direction they came from, deciding they ought not press their luck and get out of there before the hostess changes her mind.

“Hey Chels, quick question,” says Storm once the two have disappeared. “Who was that?”

“No clue! I saw them as I was leaving the show and thought ‘well the more, the merrier!’, so I invited them! It wasn’t just them that showed up though, I guess word spread that there would be a party.”

Bobby notices now the more he looks around, the more people he recognizes from the venue, draped in all sorts of chains and fishnets and spikes, looking severely out of place amongst the backdrop of normally dressed party goers, but still seeming to have a fantastic time.

“I think you’re the only person that could convince a bunch of punks to party with the bourgeoisie,” Bobby remarks.

“I think you’re the only person that would let a bunch of strangers break your shit and get away with it,” Storm comments, glancing back over at wherever those two punks who may or may not have broken Chelsea’s vase ran off to.

Chelsea shrugs. “If I’m being honest, I never really liked that vase. I just didn’t have the heart to tell my boyfriend it didn’t go.” She shakes her head. “Bless him, he couldn’t match décor if he tried,” she says more to herself than to Storm or Bobby.

“Where is he, by the way?” Storm asks.

“Last I saw, he was chatting with the DJ to make sure the music issue was sorted,” Chelsea answers, gesturing towards the DJ booth set up in front of the large floor-to-ceiling windows.

The DJ, a short tatted brunette man propped up between two large speakers, bobs along to the beat of the music coming in from his headphones, the light from his MacBook illuminating his handsome features.

“Where have I seen that guy before…?” Storm wonders aloud.

“I think he’s called Big T or something?” Chelsea answers. “Or was it Timmy Smalls…” She shakes her head, not at all worried about the DJ’s stage name. “I’d never heard of him, but Lucas insists he’s a big deal. He must be, the amount we’re paying him,” she murmurs. “Oh, speaking of!”

Chelsea gets the DJ’s attention and gives him a thumbs up.

The DJ nods, returns the thumbs up, and transitions seamlessly from the end of Megan’s song to the beginning of what sounds like…Dead Kennedys?

Chelsea smiles brightly at Storm as the song changes as if to say, “This one’s for you, bestie!”

The partygoers, Chelsea and Lucas’ rich friends and random assorted punks from the show alike, furrow their eyebrows in visible confusion at the tonal shift.

Rightfully so. While not impossible, it’s very difficult to immediately shift from the headspace of throwing it back to the headspace of overthrowing the government.

Again, very difficult, but not impossible, and it wasn’t going to stop the most determined party guests from trying anyway. The most courageous among them have formed a sort of semi-circle as they attempt to pull off some kind of horrific combination of twerking and headbanging.

Incredibly painful to watch, but it is an admittedly heartwarming display of punk-normie solidarity.

“Chelsea,” Storm says. “Never change.”

“Is that Miss Stormy Weather I see?” a man’s voice suddenly calls out.

Storm whips her head around to face the caller, Bobby following suit to see that the man who called out is the Violet Man cosplayer from Storm’s Instagram, approaching them with Gary in tow, both holding red Solo cups in their hands.

“Rahim!” Storm says, running to engulf him in a hug that nearly knocks his drink out of his hand. “It’s been a minute, huh?”

“Way too long,” he replies, holding her in a friendly embrace that seems to linger for just a beat too long.

They get their perfunctory introductions out of the way, he’s Ibrahim, pro golfer slash part-time-hobbyist comic book writer and Bobby wants to know where the fuck Storm keeps finding these people who are too ridiculously hot and successful to even be remotely real.

They all chat for a bit, Gary and Ibrahim often bouncing off one another and joking like old friends.

“You two know each other or something?” Storm questions, asking the exact same thing Bobby was wondering.

Gary shakes his head. “Nah, he looked lonely standing in a corner all by himself so I decided to make friends.” Ibrahim gives him a friendly little shove.

“Come off it, don’t pretend like you weren’t just lurking around like a lost puppy without your band members.”

“I take it you don’t know where the rest of the guys are either?” Bobby says.

Gary shrugs. “You know how Rocco is. Bloke’s probably chatting up some poor girl as we speak. Haven’t seen Noah since we showed up though. Ever since we left the show, he’s been glued to that girl, Priya.”

_Here’s to hoping he sticks the landing._

Counter to how smooth he comes off, Noah’s been known to put his foot in his mouth when it comes to actually talking to women. He’s got the sultry, seductive stare thing down to a science, but lord does the man know how to strike out when he actually gets approached. He must have been a hell of a guy in a past life to have women constantly interested in him, especially when he acts Like That.

“But never mind what those two are up to,” Gary continues. “I heard there’s a karaoke machine around here somewhere and I’ve been dying to check it out. I swear I keep hearing singing, but for the life of me I can’t find it.”

“Oh, have you checked upstairs?” Chelsea asks.

“ _There’s an upstairs?!”_ Bobby and Gary blurt out in unison.

“Yes?” Chelsea half-asks half-answers. “We’ve got a lounge on the rooftop, it’s absolutely _lush_. If you really wanna sing, you’re more than welcome.”

“ _Hell_ no,” Gary says. “I wanna watch some other poor bastards embarrass themselves.”

If he listens closely, Bobby can faintly hear the poor bastards in question, flatly singing along to Britney Spears.

“Well if we’re going upstairs, then Storm _has_ to do karaoke.” Chelsea says, turning to Storm. “ _Please_ tell me you’ll sing tonight! Please? Everyone loved it last time.”

“I didn’t know you sing,” Bobby says to Storm.

“Does she?!” says Chelsea, too excited for her own good. “I swear she sings like nothing you’ve heard before.”

“That good?”

Chelsea and Storm exchange identical looks, the kind reserved for inside jokes between close friends.

“Whatever you’re imagining right now?” Storm says. “Amplify that times _ten._ ”

“Oh, and she’s humble too,” Bobby adds.

“It’s one of my best qualities. But I’m afraid I can only sing on one condition.”

She pokes Ibrahim in the side. “You go first. I pick the song.”

It’s a flat out “No” from Ibrahim, who coolly sips his drink.

“ _Booooo!_ ” Chelsea taunts.

“Why?” questions Storm. “Don’t want everyone to find out your secret?”

“No secrets about me, I’m an open book,” Ibrahim answers unblinking.

“Lying isn’t very becoming of you, darling,” Storm teases.

“I’m not lying,” Ibrahim says back matter-of-factly.

“You’re definitely lying,” Bobby adds.

“Come on, mate, what’s your secret?” Gary presses.

“I don’t have any-”

“Rahim’s a Barb.”

Gary snorts into his drink. Bobby does a similar laugh that he doesn’t bother hiding.

“I’m not-!” Ibrahim splutters with a frown. “ _I’m not a Barb!_ ”

“Okay, not like the mean ones on Twitter or whatever,” Storm elaborates, ignoring Gary and Bobby’s snickering. “But he could rap any Nicki Minaj song in his sleep. Word for word.”

“Are you joking?”

“This I gotta see.”

“ _No_ ,” Ibrahim replies pointedly.

“I will literally beg if I have to.” Storm clasps her hands together and pouts for effect, pleading in a shoddy imitation of an 18th century peasant child. “Oh, please sing us a Nicki song, sir? Pretty please?”

Gary, Chelsea, and Bobby join in egging him on, chanting “Do it! Do it! Do it!” for as long as it takes him to crack. Whoever said peer pressure is never the answer lied, four people repeatedly begging was enough to make Ibrahim cave and agree to their demands. 

He sighs defeatedly before Chelsea escorts them all to a set of stairs tucked just out of sight from most of the debauchery and they all make their way up to the open air lounge where karaoke is taking place.

When Chelsea said the place was lush, she wasn’t lying. It feels almost like another party entirely - save for the dull thrum of the music on the first floor - the general atmosphere more subdued than that of the chaotic revelry downstairs. The music is still absolutely bumping, but nobody upstairs is going nearly as crazy and/or stupid as their first floor counterparts.

Maybe it’s the clean, fresh air, free of the stench of sweaty bodies and liquor, and the assortment of plants and greenery that makes the air feel even cleaner. Or perhaps it’s the fairy lights strung up and across much of the space like a canopy of stars imitating a night sky you could never truly experience in the heart of a big city. Everything here just feels new and different. 

The plush white furniture remains mostly empty, a good amount of people who have no interest in karaoke scattered around the rooftop choosing instead to stand around and mingle, either on the outskirts near the sturdy glass barrier encasing the rooftop or against the counter of the unattended bar.

There’s about forty people crammed onto the largest set of furniture, a U-shaped sectional couch bordering an unlit fire pit and another fifteen or so taking up various positions on the tile floor watching a dark-haired girl flatly belt out “If U Seek Amy” and hyping her up as if she were Beyoncé.

Bobby, Storm, Ibrahim, Chelsea, and Gary all take refuge on the empty ends of the sectional and wait for the Britney impersonator to wrap it up already. Britney impersonator ends the song with what sounds like was supposed to be a run, but ended up fizzling out about two notes in.

She could not look more bored if she tried, shrugging nonchalantly and handing the microphone to the girl in charge of the karaoke machine who asks energetically if anyone wants to sing next. Chelsea and Storm practically push Ibrahim up to the karaoke machine. Karaoke Girl hands the mic over to Ibrahim who reluctantly accepts.

He stands in front, tapping his foot nervously, eyes flitting around the room, avoiding the sixty or so pairs of eyes on him as Storm requests the song. Karaoke Girl hides a giggle behind her hand before she nods and queues up the song.

Storm flops back down next to Bobby, their knees knocking against one another’s as she gives him a playful grin.

“Are you a Nicki fan?”

Bobby shrugs in response. “She’s talented, but I never really took a shine to her.”

“Understandable. Maybe this’ll change your mind.”

The beginning of “Super Bass” plays, Ibrahim looking more and more like he regrets his decision with every passing second preceding the first line of the song. Everybody squished on the couch whoops loudly as Ibrahim lets out yet another deep, heavy sigh and starts rapping.

Storm’s in tears before he can even finish saying “This one is for the boys with the boomin’ system.” Ignoring her dumbassery, he continues rapping, easing up and gradually shedding his embarrassment as the song progresses.

All jokes aside, dude was killing it. Not once does he have to look at the screen displaying the lyrics, sometimes rapping ahead of the actual song. The added positive feedback of the audience (minus Storm for the first few beats where she’s cackling) gives him the boost he needs to put his all into the song, smiling the whole time through.

The audience cheers and demands an encore. Ibrahim, still riding that confidence high, gives into peer pressure (as he is known to do), though Storm picks the song again. This time she has him performing Nicki’s verse in “Monster” and he pulls it off just as effortlessly as he did the previous song.

Bobby’s not too sure he’s sold on being converted to a Nicki fan, but one thing’s for certain; the mental image of Ibrahim saying “pink wig, thick ass, give ‘em whiplash” will not be leaving his memory anytime soon.

Ibrahim passes the mic to Storm, a small skip in his step as he sits down next to Gary who claps him on the shoulder in a form of congratulations.

Storm gives her request to Karaoke Girl, who tries in vain to hold back her bemusement at whatever it is that Storm asked her to play, and queues up the song.

She grips the microphone and looks out earnestly at the crowd, her current facial expression in stark contrast to her usually goofy onstage persona, as the short prelude to Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy” bursts through the speakers. Bobby wasn’t expecting her to pick a song by _The_ Mariah Carey, and by the looks of it, neither were most of the other people watching.

Well, everyone aside from Chelsea it seems. She's practically bouncing in place in her seat.

Anybody watching leans in interestedly, anticipating the real start of the song.

The beat drops, as does Storm’s faux-serious demeanor, and she shimmies dramatically as Mariah vocalizes in the background.

More people, curious to see who had the audacity to try and pull off a Mariah classic as sacred as this, come closer to gather around the karaoke machine.

Finally, she opens her mouth to sing.

And she sounds fucking terrible.

As soon as she screeches out the first line, about half of the partygoers instinctively wince and clutch their ears at the unexpectedly harsh sound, while the others laugh and cheer her on good-naturedly.

Bobby’s somewhere between the two reactions, initially shocked that a sound so horrible could come from a real life human being, but simultaneously entertained by the bravado she displays even while sounding the way she does. 

Still, he manages a pained grin, knowing all too well that she’s fully aware of how bad she sounds and making a kind of game out of it. Every time her eyes sweep over the crowd, she looks to Bobby first, trying to gauge his reaction as she squawks into the microphone. He doesn’t crack though, to her amusement, earning him a wink and smile when she finishes the chorus the first time around, much like she did the night they met.

It’s an incredibly tough act for Bobby to keep up though because _holy shit_ the girl can not sing.

If he had to put her singing into words, he’d say it’s like the lyrics are italicized.

And in all caps.

And every word is misspelled.

Her singing voice is _abrasive_ to say the least.

It’s off-key in the worst possible way, she almost never hits the notes, she stumbles over the lyrics often and literally none of that matters. No one cares.

She’s having fun, her friends are having fun, hell, some of the people who initially cringed are even nodding along, some in ironic enjoyment, others out of pity, arms raised cautiously to cover their ears in anticipation for the next attempted (and inevitably failed) whistle note.

You wouldn’t have been able to tell she sounded awful if you only saw how she hammed it up for the crowd, sashaying wildly and narrowly avoiding tripping with every stamp of her cartoonishly large shoes.

She was not the slightest bit decent, but the stage presence she has from years of performing could almost be enough to convince someone she was.

The song finishes to lukewarm fanfare, and Storm bows low before handing the mic to a huge, intoxicated man who decides to keep the Mariah train going with a borderline pornographic rendition of “Touch My Body”, complete with overly sexual improvised choreography.

Bobby, Chelsea, Gary, and Ibrahim all congratulate Storm on her amusing display before dispersing, Gary and Ibrahim staying back to watch the current singer and cheering him on as he slurs through the lyrics, and Chelsea going to entertain some guests a few feet away from karaoke.

Storm and Bobby take a breather at a couch a few paces away, Storm kicking her feet up on the table in front of them.

“So?” she asks, propping her chin up with her fist. “Am I the next Mariah or what?”

“Never heard anything like it.”

“See? Told you.”

“I admire the courage it must take to publicly humiliate yourself.”

“Maybe I’m into humiliation,” she teases, poking her tongue at him.

“Gross.”

“Not as gross as your foot fetish, toe boy,” she says, nudging him with the toe of her boot.

“I don’t have a fucking foot fetish.”

“You can’t just send me a picture of Rihanna’s feet with no context and expect me _not_ to think you have a foot fetish.”

Okay, that was a _one time_ thing and there was a very practical reason for it.

“I swear to god I was looking at her tattoos. Not my fault Rihanna just so happens to have nice feet.”

“So there’s a criteria for nice feet?” Storm asks, steepling her fingers in front of her face. “ _Please_ let me know what ticks your boxes for acceptable feet, I’m dying to know.”

“Not that hard to tell the difference between an ugly foot and a pretty foot. It’s the same with girls and hands I reckon,” he says, wiggling his own fingers for effect.

“Not _at all_ the same,” she laughs, before giving a detailed list of reasons why hands are infinitely better than feet, complete with Googled images of hands and feet in order to really compare the two.

Bobby pulls up his own Google searches, though to be fair, he does cheat a bit by typing “ugly hands” and “pretty feet” respectively, which Storm calls him out for. She also points out that now he has “pretty feet” in his search history and his ISP is probably concerned.

Bobby’s appreciative of the playful rapport they’ve built up over the past few months. God knows he was a blubbering mess the first time they ever talked, it very well may be a miracle he’s here making dumb foot fetish jokes with her. Hell, he’s still sometimes caught off guard when he realizes just _who_ he’s making dumb foot fetish jokes with. He can try to push his feelings away all he wants, but there’s no pushing away the way his heart jumps when he sees the creases that form at the corners of her eyes when she finds something he said particularly funny.

“Hands are _way_ better! Look, I used to know this guy who –”

There’s a sudden commotion over by the karaoke machine, the sound of scuffling and feedback and the song being abruptly cut short. Turning their attention to the noise, they see the drunk guy who was singing, shirtless with his pants caught around his ankles, assumedly stripping while he was in the middle of his number, having the microphone wrestled out of his hands by Karaoke Girl. He doesn’t put up much of a fight though, struggling briefly before ultimately relenting and succumbing to his drunken exhaustion. It takes no less than five people to drag his unconscious body out of the way and onto one of the unoccupied sofas.

“Alright, who wants next on karaoke?” Karaoke Girl calls out, out of breath from her kerfuffle with that huge drunk stranger.

“I’ll go!” Bobby responds before turning back to Storm. “Duet me.”

She shakes her head sternly. “Nah. You sing for a living, I’m good.”

“You literally just sang.”

“Yeah, _by myself_. Humiliation is one thing, but I don’t know if my poor ego can take being upstaged,” she replies, closing her eyes and pressing the back of her hand to her forehead in a melodramatic pretend faint.

“Indulge me just this once,” says Bobby. “Promise I’ll go easy on you.”

Storm considers carefully, peeking at him with one eye before ultimately saying, “Alright, _fine._ ”

Before they even have the chance to do their duet, an absurdly handsome dark-haired man _psssts!_ at Storm to get her attention, waving her over to the top of the steps where he stands. She doesn’t budge, waving him over to her spot instead. He throws his hands up in exasperation before ultimately obliging, going to painstaking lengths to Solid Snake stealth behind assorted furniture to avoid being seen by…someone.

“Hello, Lucas,” Storm says once he reaches her, in the same vein as a pesky younger sibling. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Lucas looks overwhelmed, his neatly pressed white shirt disheveled and his eyes constantly shifting back to the same spot. “I need your help with something.”

“Can it wait?” Storm groans.

“It’s about…” he doesn’t say her name explicitly, only nods his head in Chelsea’s direction, oblivious as she attempts to balance a spoon on her nose to entertain exactly three people who cheer her on.

Storm sighs. She _is_ her best friend after all. She looks empathetically over at Bobby. She’d _really_ rather be singing with him right now, but when duty calls…

“Rain check?”

“Rain check.”

Storm hoists herself up, unsteady at first on her platforms, before following Lucas downstairs.

Well, karaoke with her is out of the question for now, but by god _somebody’s_ singing a duet with Bobby tonight and he doesn’t care who.

“Any takers for duets?” he calls out.

Chelsea’s hand shoots up immediately, sending the spoon on her nose clattering to the ground. “Ooh! Ooh, me! Pick me!”

He lets her pick a song first.

She makes it apparent that she’s a huge Spice Girls fan and he makes it apparent that the only song he knows of theirs is “Wannabe”. Chelsea is a surprisingly skilled singer. The audience is psyched to finally have some decent people after that last train wreck and Bobby’s happy for a chance to perform especially with a partner that can match his energy. When they finish “Wannabe”, Chelsea lets him pick any song he wants, so he chooses “Bad Reputation”, a song Chelsea is very excited that she actually recognizes. Him and Chelsea click very well and they both beam at one another when they get the loudest applause of the night.

“Bobby! That was amazing!” she cheers once they’ve finished their performance. “We need to have a proper karaoke night one of these days.”

They talk at length about hypothetical future karaoke song choices before Bobby leaves her so she can continue entertaining. He decides to rejoin the party downstairs, maybe grab a drink or dance a little.

On his way, he bumps into Noah and Priya, sneaking towards one of the private bedrooms and giggling like teenagers.

“Oh!” Priya exclaims when she nearly collides headfirst into Bobby. “Didn’t see you there! How’re you making out, love?”

“Um, fine I guess,” Bobby replies, pretending like he doesn’t notice Noah’s hand on Priya’s waist.

The three of them linger awkwardly in place, Noah’s gaze constantly shifting to the door handle next to him and Priya chewing impatiently on her bottom lip.

“I’m just gonna head out,” Bobby finally interrupts. “I’ll catch up with both of you later.”

They give him a hasty goodbye, wasting no time as they dash into the bedroom and slam the door shut…Good for them.

Bobby proceeds to a less-populated area of the house where he finds his buddy Rocco on one of the cast-off chaise lounges, entertaining four women in designer clothes with some bullshit story that almost definitely did not happen in classic Rocco fashion.

“So then _I_ said, ‘if _you’re_ over there, and _I’m_ over here, then who’s driving this van?’ and then – hey, Bobby! How’s it hangin’?”

“Oh come on, Rocco, aren’t you gonna tell us how the story ends?” one of the girls whines, pressing a hand to his exposed chest.

“D’you mind? Talkin’ to my mate here.”

The girl rolls her eyes, but makes no effort to leave. Neither do any of the other women. It’s a little bit spooky the kind of Rasputin ass charm Rocco possesses that makes women melt so easily under his influence.

“No guitar tonight?” says Bobby.

“Nah, not tonight I’m afraid.”

“Well, that’s a shame, I was kinda looking forward to hearing you play ‘Wonderwall’ by now.”

“’Wonderwall’ at a party?” Rocco scoffs. “ _God_ , no. That’s such a cliché.”

And, as if it had materialized from out of thin air, Rocco pulls a ukulele from behind him. “Anyway, here’s ‘Riptide’.” The four women lose it, clapping excitedly in anticipation for Rocco’s performance.

He strums the first few chords beautifully before singing not-so-beautifully. The man’s a skilled guitarist (ukulele-ist?), but a singer he is not.

“ _I was scared of dentists and the dark –_ You want in on this verse?” he yells in Bobby’s direction as a few more people start to gather around him.

“Nah, I think you got this one,” he responds as Rocco warbles the next line.

Rocco shrugs. “Your loss! _All my friends are turning green…_ ”

Bobby leaves to scope out the scene a little longer and ends up back at the elevator.

It dings and out step Lottie and Hope, the former in a new outfit, talking with the latter before they greet Bobby. 

“Fashionably late I see,” he says, gesturing towards her new fit, a sleek black dress that he remembers she once told him was for urgent style emergencies only.

“Yeah, we would’ve been here sooner but some dickhead spilled his drink all over the front of my outfit,” she says with a sad scowl. “That was my _favorite shirt_.”

“Cut the poor guy some slack, Lottie, he apologized about a million times,” says Hope.

“Only after I ripped him a new one.” She sighs. “At least I have my phone now.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen Noah around, have you?” Hope asks Bobby. “I haven’t seen him since the show and he hasn’t returned any of my messages.”

Against all his good judgement his brain is telling him, _Lie. Lie through your god damn teeth._

“No, not recently.”

“Oh,” she says, fighting the forlornness creeping onto her face. “That’s too bad. Well, if you see him around let him know I asked for him.”

“Girl, look around,” Lottie says exasperatedly, motioning all around them. “There are hot guys _everywhere._ Forget about him for tonight and go _have fun_!” She gives Hope an imploring look, waiting for her to agree that she will stop stressing over this one dude and actually enjoy herself.

“Yeah,” she finally says, unsurely at first, before shaking her shoulders out and exhaling. “ _Yeah_. Okay, I will. Are you gonna be alright while I go?”

“I’ll be _fine._ Go on ahead, babes.” Lottie waves Hope off, giving one last doubtful glance before disappearing into the crowd.

“She worries me sometimes,” Lottie murmurs under her breath, rubbing at her temples and leaning against the wall behind her. “Enough about her guy troubles though, I’ve been dying to have a chat with you all night.”

She and Bobby talk for a little bit, a good amount of their conversation comprised of jokes about how they’ll prepare the rich when it’s time to eat them. “Elote Musk” and “Jerk Bezos” are their top contenders for bad billionaire food puns. Runner up goes to the absolutely _vile_ portmanteau that is “Bill-et mignon Gates”.

“Warren Buffet?” Lottie snickers. “Is that anything?”

“ _Terrible,_ ” Bobby says, laughing anyway. “All you did was take a letter off his name.”

Lottie laughs, though it mitigates quickly as she fixates on a figure just out of Bobby’s peripheral vision.

“Doin’ alright, mate?” Gary says when he comes fully into both of their fields of vision.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Bobby says.

“Nothing much, just wanted to say hi before I went for a refill.”

“What a coincidence! I could go for a drink myself,” Lottie says, giving him what Bobby would describe as “Bedroom Eyes Lite”. Not quite horny enough to be full-on bedroom eyes but _just_ on the cusp. “Want some company?”

“Only if you’re offering,” Gary responds, giving her a similar look before directing his attention to Bobby. “Mind if I steal her from you for a minute?”

“Not my permission you need,” he teases.

“Right answer,” says Lottie before bidding Bobby adieu and walking with Gary to the kitchen.

Bobby’s eyes unwittingly follow them as they walk off, unintentionally taking notice of the small gestures the two share; the little touches here and there, the hushed laughter hidden behind hasty sips and coy lip bites and man, it sure does make him feel…something.

It’s not jealousy, not quite, but the sight of the two of them so intimately close twists at something so ugly and vulnerable and remotely unlike him that he had no idea even existed until this moment. It hits him extra hard because he knows he doesn’t have the right to be almost-jealous.

He _doesn’t_ have feelings for Lottie, no way could he have feelings for Lottie, that’s the whole fuckin’ point of having no strings. He doesn’t want to entertain the idea that he could feel this way about two people he cares so much about.

To the back of his brain the cryptic feeling goes, at least until it inevitably starts bothering him again.

“Maybe don’t replace it?” he hears Storm say just out of earshot.

“Are you sure?” he hears Lucas respond. “I don’t know how it broke in the first place, but I’d be gutted if Chels found out.”

“Something tells me she’ll be just fine without it. Come find me later if you still wanna talk, alright?”

Storm walks up to Bobby, looking a bit pained as she steps carefully towards him but grinning when she sees him. 

“Having fun?” he asks.

“Yup! Feet are killing me though. Sucks, dancing was on my number one list of priorities for tonight. Bummer.”

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with walking around on those massive shoes all night.”

“Keep talkin’ shit McKenzie, I’ll step on you,” she teases.

They move to an empty lounge with a good view of the dancefloor. She sits down, making a show of kicking off her boots. She sighs in relief, kicking her shoes to the side and wiggling her now free toes. She pats the spot next to her, gesturing for Bobby to sit down, to which he obliges.

“Sure would be just awful if one of my favorite songs played right now,” she says, certain that a party thrown by her best friend with her music tastes in mind couldn’t possibly play a song that she loves.

“Rage” by Rico Nasty plays, one of Storm’s self-professed favorite songs, and she groans, slumping low in her seat. “Why does god hate me?”

She sings along under her breath, looking first at the sea of jumping people and then to her own sore feet tapping along in time with the beat. The song’s about twenty seconds in before she can’t stand it anymore.

“Dance with me,” she finally says to Bobby.

“But your feet.”

“Fuck my feet!”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“I’m gonna ignore you said that, perv," she says, rolling her eyes. "We’re dancing. But just for this one song. Come on.”

Taking tentative barefoot steps over to the dancefloor, they wriggle their way into the throng of people raging, shouting the words to Rico’s song and jumping up and down in a similar fashion to the mosh pits the both of them are so fond of. The soreness of Storm's feet is a small price to pay so long as she can dance to music she loves with one of her close good friends. The look on her face is just pure unbridled joy as her long hair whips around her, messily spouting the lyrics with her fists pumping in the air.

Just one song turns into two then three then they’ve lost track entirely after a while. Before they know it they’re out of breath, seeking refuge on the outskirts of the main dance area to the spot where she left her shoes.

“I’m gonna hate myself tomorrow for doing this to myself,” she says, leaning against the furniture and panting.

“Worth it, though,” says Bobby, Storm nodding her head in agreement.

A pair of hands suddenly snake up from behind Storm to cover her eyes.

“Guess who?” the owner of the hands says.

Ah, shit.

Marisol’s standing there clear as day, a bright movie star grin on her face as she surprises her girlfriend.

“Babe!” says Storm, an audible representation of both her and Bobby’s own befuddlement. “What are you doing here?”

“Finished a few things early, misread the deadline on another, and not one but _two_ professors got sick and had to push their deadlines back. So in other words I’m all yours tonight.”

Storm looks undecidedly at her before exclaiming “Drinks! Don’t go anywhere!”

Bobby wants to call out to Storm, say “No, wait, don’t leave me here!” but she’s already off. He _could_ just go with her, but something tells him that would just give Marisol even more of a reason to be wary of him. With nothing else to do but wait for her to return, Bobby takes a seat on the far end of the lounge, Marisol reluctantly following suit on the opposite end.

He bounces his leg as he waits. And waits. And waits.

Realistically, it’s only been about a minute since she left, but a minute may as well be infinity in such a high-stress situation. He bounces his leg even harder as she fiddles with the holes in her distressed jeans.

_If Storm doesn’t hurry up with those god damn drinks already._

Whatever high-energy reggaeton song was playing previously segues into “Don’t Mess With My Man”, the lyrics absurdly on the nose as he and Marisol avoid each other’s eyes for another tense minute or two.

There isn’t a word in the English language to describe the feeling of getting mean-mugged by your crush’s girlfriend while the words “ _Here’s a little advice for you: find your own girl”_ play over the speakers at the loudest possible volume. His leg is bouncing so hard at this point, he’s surprised he hasn’t taken flight by now.

He should say something right?

“Right, well, I guess I should just come out and say it,” Marisol blurts out before he gets the chance to, sighing heavily. “…Sorry.”

“Pardon?” he says, unsure he heard her quite right.

“ _I said I’m sorry_ ,” she seems to say in a single, winded breath that took too much energy to expel. One hundred percent the apology of a woman who hasn’t been sorry for a damn thing she’s ever done in her life.

She takes another moment to collect her thoughts before saying what’s on her mind.

“Look…I know I acted like a dick to you when we first met. But I realize I was just letting my insecurities getting the best of me and I took it out on you and I want to apologize. I have nothing against you.”

“You sure? Kinda looked like you wanted to kill me there for a second.”

_Oh god, please let that joke land._

As if some unknown force heard his silent plea, she laughs. It’s a soft and unsure laughter, like she can hardly believe she’s laughing herself, but it’s genuine enough to ease Bobby’s mind and make him feel like he can breathe just the slightest bit easier around her.

“I have this condition called ‘Resting Bitch Face’, maybe you’ve heard of it?”

She giggles at her own joke and he allows himself to laugh with her too. Maybe she’s not so bad after all.

“On a more serious note, can we put this whole…‘thing’ behind us?”

“Of course,” he answers, her shoulders relaxing at his response.

“Yo! Look who came to join us!” Storm calls out to them as she approaches, without a single drink and looking pleasantly surprised that Marisol and Bobby are talking ( _and talking cordially at that!_ ). She shows up with Rocco, his ukulele nowhere in sight.

“What ever happened to the drinks, my love?” Marisol inquires, lowering her glasses onto the bridge of her nose like a scrutinizing librarian.

“The what?” Storm replies, looking authentically confused before realizing her mistake. “ _Oh!_ _That’s_ what I forgot to do! Sorry guys, I got a little sidetracked back there.”

“Anyway,” she continues. “I find this guy and he’s on like what? His _fifth_ rendition of ‘Riptide’? I was loving it, but everyone else was losing interest fast, so I’m like ‘Hey, man, you take requests?’ and he says ‘Yes…but only if it’s ‘Riptide.’ So you know what we did? Sang ‘Riptide’ a sixth time.”

“She’s not the best singer,” Rocco says, lacking the self-awareness about his own voice that Storm has about hers. “But we got to talking after the song and I could sense we were on a similar wavelength.”

“I dunno about wavelengths, but this he’s got some _real_ interesting thoughts. Mari, I figured you would get a real kick out analyzing this guy.”

“You can analyze me anytime,” Rocco says, giving Marisol a pointed smolder that makes Storm grimace. “Have we met before?”

“No, I don’t believe we have.”

“Are you sure? I definitely would’ve remembered someone like you.”

Storm’s jaw stiffens, awaiting Marisol’s response.

“Oh, would you now?” she replies, Storm’s eyes widening in surprise. “Because I definitely remember you.”

She’s not flirting, is she? No. There’s no way. She wouldn’t do that, not in front of her own girlfriend.

“Ah, Beelzebabe! You’re their drummer!” Rocco says, snapping his fingers when he finally realizes where he recognizes her from. “I gotta say," Rocco says, lowering his voice the way he does when he's locked his eyes on his new target. "I find drummers _incredibly_ hot.”

“Yes, my _girlfriend_ is incredibly hot,” Storm replies tight-lipped before Marisol can respond to anything else he says. “It’s just one of the many things I like about my _girlfriend_.”

She’s a mirror image of her drunk partner when _she_ was jealous of some other dude seemingly putting the moves on her girlfriend.

“Whoa, I’m sensing some tension over here. Should I go or…”

“You know what, yeah, I think you should.”

Storm watches, cross-armed and stony-faced as Rocco gets his ass out of there, having the nerve to look confused at why she's suddenly no longer the chill girl he sang "Riptide" with a few minutes prior.

The sound of raised voices can be heard elsewhere in the house, made more intriguing by the reactive _oohs_ being heard from wherever this thing is going down. 

Bobby makes to follow the ruckus, as does Marisol before Storm stops her in her tracks.

“Whatever’s going on over there can wait. We need to talk.”

Marisol sighs and defers, staying back for a conversation Bobby’s glad he doesn’t have to bear witness to.

He, along with a horde of other curious guests, follow the sound to the spot near where he bumped into Noah and Priya earlier.

Hope and Noah are getting into it, and from the looks of it, things are just starting to heat up. Hope looks crushed beyond words and Noah looks super uncomfortable being the center of attention, sweating under the scrutiny of the small crowd of partygoers who ceased their normal activities so they could see these two people hash things out.

Priya’s nowhere to be found during the spat. Bobby hopes she at least got out of there before things got too rough. He can’t help but feel at least a little at fault for the way things panned out for encouraging her interest in Noah.

“So, what, it’s my fault for fancying you?” Hope laments. “I thought we had something.”

“We _did_ have something. I just didn’t think you were that serious about it. ”

Hope scoffs. “That’s _really_ rich considering I wrote a song about you.”

“To be fair, I didn’t exactly ask for a song to be written about me.”

They carry on with the back-and-forth for another few beats, everybody watching intently as if it were a particularly intense tennis match. Chelsea sidles up next to Bobby, watching in horror as this very unpleasant scene plays out in front of her. “Oh, this is a disaster,” she groans, pressing a palm to her cheek.

“Look, Hope, can we just talk this out?” Noah quietly pleads, gently grabbing hold of her shoulders. “Somewhere private?”

For a brief moment, Hope really looks like she might say yes. She looks up at Noah, at his sincere expression, and then back down at her fists, clenching and unclenching in an effort to calm herself. She lets out a shaky breath before marching right past Noah and away from the thick of the crowd.

He scrubs a hand down his face in anguish before stalking off in the opposite direction, ignoring the whispered gossip among him.

“Could things get any worse?” Chelsea whines, right before she and Bobby hear a familiar sound in the direction Marisol and Storm were.

More raised voices.

_There must be something in the air tonight._

They share a worried look before checking out the noise, finding Storm and Marisol involved in their own argument, this one more contained thanks to the number of people that were preoccupied with the other fight, but far more explosive, at least on Storm’s end.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” she shouts, traces of her Brooklyn accent threatening to slip out the angrier she gets.

“I already apologized, but I’ll do it again if it makes you less upset,” Marisol replies, concerned but calm.

“That’s not what I’m mad about!”

“Well, I can’t know what you _are_ mad about if you don’t tell me what’s bothering you.”

Storm seethes, remaining silent as she crosses her arms and allows her girlfriend to continue talking. Marisol’s general attitude is much like that of a school therapist, picking apart the psyche in real time in a manner that’s ultimately caring if not overshadowed by the slightest hint of condescension.

“I know you don’t _like_ to, but I think it would be in your best interest to examine why your first instinct is to shut others out,” Marisol continues.

“See!” Storm interrupts. “There you go again trying to turn everything into some kind of fuckin’ character study!”

“I’m not trying to do that, I’m just trying to understand where you’re coming from.”

“Then just _talk_ to me! Can we please just have a normal fuckin’ conversation for once?”

“We can’t have a ‘normal’ conversation until you’re ready to act like an adult,” Marisol blurts out, biting her lip in regret as soon as the words leave her mouth.

But it’s too late. The damage is done, she’s already hit Storm where it hurts.

Utterly taken aback, she blinks once, then three times as she bristles in…shock? Contempt? Heartache? _All of the above?_ Who knows? All she knows is she can’t look her girlfriend in the eyes, not right now. Marisol tries in vain to grab her arm, Storm shrugging her off easily and stomping off to retrieve her shoes from behind the chair where she left them.

Chelsea and Bobby instinctively rush to comfort her as she heads for the exit, trying their best to preserve the situation.

“Babes, are you okay?”

“If you need to talk, we’re here for you.”

“No! I…” she trails off, eyes lingering on Marisol as she stalks out onto the balcony. She sighs, overwhelmed, tearing her gaze away from the balcony and blinking back angry tears. “ _No._ I get what you guys are trying to do and I appreciate it but I just…I just need to be alone right now.”

She pushes past them and towards the elevator, tapping frantically on the button so she can just get out of there already.

The party resumes business as usual, they don’t really have much choice but to do so. The bad foreboding sensation seems to linger in the air long after Storm is gone.

The party could only survive so long after that string of outbursts. The number of guests eventually dwindled, leaving just a few intoxicated stragglers who were unceremoniously kicked out and given a complimentary rideshare home.

Bobby was among the handful of people who were sober and willing enough to help clean up. Chelsea thanked him profusely and let him know that if he needed a karaoke partner ever again that she was the one to call.

The rest of his night is tame, save for the wind picking up a bit as he lay in his bed, playing one of his vinyl records on low, trying to shake off that bad feeling he’s had since that fight. He just wants to know his friend is alright, but he doubts he’ll hear from her until the morning.

That is until he hears a faint

 _Tap!_ at his window.

Huh. Must be the wind. He rolls over onto his side, kicking a stray pillow off his bed.

_Tap! Tap!_

…Wind’s kinda violent tonight, huh?

_Tap!...TAP!_

Alright, fuck, it’s not the wind, he’ll get up. He trudges on over to his window and opens it up to get a good look outside. He catches a glimpse of that familiar blur of gray hair before he sees another gray blur in the form of a projectile hurtling right towards his face.

“Whoa!” he exclaims as he sidesteps to avoid it. Too close.

The projectile, a small rock that Storm was throwing to get his attention like something out of a John Hughes film, lands just near his feet. He picks it up, displaying it between his fingers as he leans back out of the window.

“Not trying to break my window, are you?” he whisper-shouts out to her down below, careful not to get too loud lest he wake the neighbors. 

“My bad!” she returns in a similar volume to his, immediately dropping the artillery of pebbles she was holding. “Had to get your attention somehow.”

“Y’know you could’ve just called.”

“Where’s the drama in that?”

_The drama? Excuse me?_

“Kidding!” she says when she peeps his alarmed expression. “My phone’s dead,” she adds, waving her deceased phone in her hand to really drive the point home.

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re outside of my window at two in the morning.”

“I wanna ask you something.”

“What?”

She stands there for just a moment, looking up at him in a way he was tempted to call dangerous, bleary eyes wide with a new resolve.

“Wanna go on an adventure?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we’re back! this one took me a MINUTE lmao. don't mind me, i have been procrastinating a lil bit pero that is okay 😚 also DUDE my bad i did not intend for this chapter to be so lengthy but things got out of hand quick lol. i really hope you all are doing well and as always thank you for reading !!


	5. i think we're alone now

Bobby went through a lot of phases when he was a kid.

At four it was dinosaurs. _The Land Before Time_ stayed on in the McKenzie household – much to the annoyance of his older sister Tessa who was ten at the time and simply wanted to watch literally anything else that wasn’t a “baby movie” – and getting him to eat anything that wasn’t a dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget was like pulling teeth (twenty years later he still stands by the belief that they taste better than the regular ones).

Dinosaur phase was swiftly ushered out by Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles phase. Five-year-old Bobby believed with his whole heart that Michelangelo was real and that they were connected in some deep, spiritual way.

After Ninja Turtles came karate. His bedroom was practically converted into a dojo at his behest and just as quickly as he became obsessed did he decide that karate was dumb actually and he didn’t want to take lessons anymore. On to the next fixation that would surely be just as short-lived.

Ridiculous? Yes, incredibly. That’s just a perk of being the baby of the family; you get spoiled beyond comprehension and nobody questions it. Doubly so after your parents separate and are in constant competition vying for their children’s affection.

Oh, how their poor wallets and sanity were put through the wringer indulging this young boy in every one of his short-lived hobbies, all popping up long enough for his whole life to revolve around his chosen special interest and none sticking around long enough to have any real justification for investing so heavily in them.

Well, all except one.

It was the one that manifested in a very sudden desire to learn how to play every instrument in the house. Just like Dad.

Joseph McKenzie wasn’t exactly a musician in the classical sense, but he was a music teacher with a deep passion for it all the same.

He had a particular fondness for piano, for its versatility in crafting melodies equal parts melancholy and joyful, eliciting emotions you just can’t get from any other instrument. He could often be found in his study-turned-music room, surrounded by walls of hanging instruments, sat at the grand piano that acted as the centerpiece and tapping away at the keys for hours on end. He encouraged his children’s interest in music whenever he could and, as such, the door to the music room was always open.

Except when it wasn’t.

Some late nights Bobby would sneak out of bed and follow the sound of singing piano keys and sit and listen right next to the closed oak door. He’d mime the moves of a master pianist and pretend it was him making music until he grew tired and tiptoed his way back to bed sight unseen.

There was one time, however, when he overheard not a song, but an argument. A particularly heated one over the phone, muffled just beyond the music room door, his parents speaking in angry hushed whispers so as not to wake the kids. Bobby had just caught the back end of the conversation so he didn’t hear much.

He _did_ hear the slamming of the phone on the receiver. Then he heard the shaky exhale of his father. Then he heard pacing. Then he heard absolutely nothing.

And then he heard the telltale chime of the piano.

It wasn’t the same as how his dad usually played. It was a slow, mournful tune, dark yet hauntingly beautiful. One that filled Bobby with a deep sense of sorrow that he couldn’t quite articulate being as young as he was.

It was bewitching.

It was terrifying.

Joseph ceased his playing at once, certain he could hear one of his children up past their bedtime. He was entirely prepared to scold them and send them back to their room until he heard more clearly the sound of sniffling just outside of the door. He’d recognize that sound anywhere.

“Oh, _no_ ,” he muttered as he got up from the piano bench in a worried scramble. _How much did he hear?_

He opened the door to find Bobby, crying softly as he clutched his knees to his chest. Instinctively, Joseph scooped him up into his arms in a protective cradle, urgent to console him.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed gently. “What’s the matter, kiddo?”

“I don’t know,” Bobby kept repeating, wiping the sleeves of his pajama shirt across his runny eyes and nose. “I don’t know.”

That was a good enough answer for Joseph who sat with Bobby in his arms until his tears ran dry. His breathing gradually slowed until it matched his father’s, their chests rising and falling in rhythmic unison.

It might’ve been hours, it might’ve been a few seconds, but no amount of safety in the form of his father’s arms could quite sate his morbid curiosity to listen to that harrowing melody. The siren call of the piano was beckoning him, drawing him in. He wanted to hear it again. The song chilled him to his bones, but every fiber of his being was begging to hear it again.

He wriggled out of his father’s grasp and padded over to the piano, desperately tapping on all the keys in an effort to recreate the song he’d just heard. His frustration grew as he realized that no matter what combination of keys he pressed, he couldn’t reproduce whatever sound his dad had just made.

Joseph stepped in, sitting on the bench beside Bobby, playing a bouncy, upbeat tune in an effort to cheer up the boy. But he didn’t want to be cheered up. He just wanted to play like Dad. Bobby put his own hand over his father’s, prompting him to stop playing.

“Can you teach me piano?” he said, looking up earnestly at his dad.

It made Joseph incredibly happy to hear that his son was taking an interest in something he himself was so fond of, but he feared that this too would end up a phase like all the others. Still, he couldn’t just say no.

“We can start tomorrow. But _only_ if it’s something you really want to do.”

“It is.”

“Are you sure? I’m not letting you give it up this time, so I want you to really think about it.”

Joseph looked Bobby dead in the eyes.

“Is this _really_ what you want to do?”

Absolutely. In that moment, Bobby was positive that nothing would sway his certainty that this was the one thing he wanted to do most, more than anything in the world.

It lasted about a week.

“From the top, Bobby.”

“But _Dad,”_ he drew out in a long, exasperated groan.

A six-year-old can only run scales so many times before they start complaining.

“No buts! Get to tickling those ivories, mister,” said Joseph with a little flourish of his hand.

“Ew,” replied Bobby, scrunching his face up and sticking his tongue out.

“Just an expression, kiddo,” Joseph chuckled. “Now hop to it! I want my ears to be dazzled.”

Bobby did not hop to it. Instead he slumped over, his weight on the keys striking a dissonant chord that rang sharply through the house.

“But piano is _boring,_ ” he griped. “Nobody cool ever played piano.”

“Plenty of cool people played piano.”

“Name me ten.”

Joseph quickly rattled off a list of names as he counted off on his fingers.

“Nat King Cole, Fats Domino, Duke Ellington, Patrice Rushen, Billy Joel – ”

“ _Who?_ ”

“Er, before your time, son,” he said sheepishly, pushing his glasses further up on his face. “One of these days we’ll have to have a proper sit-down and listen to the classics together.”

“Can I _please_ just move on to guitar already? I wanna play _that_ one!” Bobby exclaimed, pointing at his father’s electric guitar on its stand in the corner of the room.

“I don’t even think your little arms could pick it up.”

“Could to!” he huffed, hopping off of the bench and marching on over to the stand propping up the guitar. He attempted to pick it up, struggling at first with one hand then using all his strength to carry it with both, swaying a bit on the spot as its weight nearly toppled him over.

“Whoa, whoa! Easy!” Joseph called, rushing over to keep his son upright and have him hold it in the proper position, fearful that he would break the guitar and/or his appendages. “Careful!”

“I got it!” Bobby said with a smile, sitting down with the guitar in his lap, the body of it just barely chin level with him.

“See?” he said, giving it a few experimental strums. “Perfect.” It might’ve _looked_ too big, but in Bobby’s mind it was a perfect fit. Like it was made for him.

“Dad, can you please teach me guitar instead? Please? I won’t give it up this time.”

“Just like you weren’t gonna give up those karate lessons?”

“This is different! This won’t be a waste of money! Promise,” he replied, flashing his father a gap-toothed grin.

Oh, jeez. He and Lauren were so careful not to let slip any concerns about money around the children, but he must’ve gotten wind somehow. Nothing slips past this kid, huh?

“It’s not about the money, Bobby,” he sighed, kneeling so he was eye level with his son. “It’s about tenacity.”

Bobby frowned. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Tenacity,” his father said, hoisting the guitar out of his hands. “Means not giving up. Even when something’s really hard or boring.” He placed the guitar back into its stand before moving to the piano. 

“No guitar until you’ve shown me you learned enough on _this_ instrument,” he added, patting the closed piano lid like a used car salesman would pat the roof of a car. “Then we’ll talk.”

“Now, from the top,” said Joseph as he gestured for Bobby to sit back down and give the piano another try.

His father patiently waited as he ran through scales a few more times, a silent look of pride on his face as Bobby ran through them more fluidly with each try. Bobby didn’t notice how proud his dad was, he was too busy sulking. The sound of Tessa on the phone as she approached the music room made them both look up.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. Yup. Yeah, I’ll tell them. Okay. Love you, too.”

She hung up and leaned against the doorframe.

“Mum said she’d be here to pick us up ‘round 8.”

Joseph checked his wristwatch. Time sure does seem to slip away when you’re teaching your son a valuable life lesson.

“Guess that means I should get started on dinner. Thanks for reminding me, Tess.”

Tessa just nodded, slinking back disinterestedly to another part of the house. Joseph turned to Bobby, already prepared to get as far away from the piano as possible.

“Bobby, would you be a dear and help your father out in the kitchen?”

“If I do, does it mean I’m off the hook for piano lessons?” he asked, fluttering his lashes innocently.

“Nice try, kid. Just means you’ll have to practice extra hard next weekend.”

Bobby sighed dramatically.

“ _Okay_ ,” he sighed again, pouting at his father before trudging slowly towards the door. He sighed a third time, making sure his father could clearly see his glum expression.

Ah, the old woe is me act. Worked like a charm every single time. Joseph of course knew he was being manipulated by a literal child but those sad eyes just _get_ to him, fake or not.

“Y’know what? Let’s make a deal,” he said, stopping Bobby in his tracks. “I want you to write me an original piece and play it for me.”

“ _Original?!_ ”

“Easy now, it doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Just show me you’ve learned something. Anything. If I think you’ve improved enough, we’ll go out to the shops and I’ll buy you any guitar you want.”

“And if I fail?”

“Then that’s another month’s piano lessons. And we’ll keep going until you show me you’ve gotten better. Whaddaya say?”

Bobby seemed to ponder it over for a while, cogs turning in his head as he contemplated the pros and cons of agreeing to such a thing. A _whole_ guitar? To himself? Just for making a mediocre song on the piano?

“You got yourself a deal!”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Bobby. You have one week.”

“Easy! That guitar is mine, old man!”

“Wh –!” he sputtered. “ _Old?!_ I’m wounded.”

He clutched his heart and fell to his knees in a drawn-out Wicked Witch of the West impersonation, shrieking “ _I’m melting!_ ” until he was a sprawled out, unmoving heap on the floor, playing dead and lolling his tongue out. If he could, he’d have cartoon X’s for eyes. Bobby didn’t buy it though.

“Dad. Get up.”

“I can’t. I’m dead. You’ve killed me.”

“You can’t buy me a guitar if you’re dead.”

The response caught Joseph all the way off-guard, prompting him to let out a deep belly-laugh that made Bobby giggle in turn.

“Dear god,” Joseph muttered as he sat up. “I think I’ve created a monster.”

The smell of bubblegum is all-encompassing as Bobby sits next to Storm in the backseat of the car she called them from his phone. She popped a piece in her mouth some time between ordering the ride and lamenting about the fact that the Tube doesn’t run 24 hours, unlike the oh-so-majestic New York City Subway.

The gum’s scent bursts in the stale air of the Volkswagen Jetta with every bubble she blows and pops. It’s ten times as strong as any gum he’s ever had, nearly suffocating him with its sweetness, exacerbated by the close quarters in which they sit.

The ride isn’t long at all. The driver, who gets a five-star rating despite running a red light, speeding, and driving over multiple potholes, let’s them off at a curb just outside of a pub whose guests drunkenly shamble out by the boatload. Bobby and Storm narrowly avoid being trampled by an entourage of inebriated girls that quite literally smell like piss and vodka (minus their one sober friend who apologizes for their behavior).

“The ‘adventure’ is a pub?” Bobby questions, looking skeptically at the building.

“Nope. What I’ve got is way cooler than that. Follow me.”

Storm leads him to some dark alley just around the corner. If ever he were to have his kidneys stolen, he reckons it would definitely be somewhere like this.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to murder me.”

“Only thing getting killed tonight is your feet because we’ve got a bit of a walk ahead of us. Try and keep up.”

So they walk. And they walk. And they keep on walking. Storm’s earlier complaints about her own feet seem to be null and void as she moves with an expeditious spring in her step. She must be really excited about what she has to show him, seeing as Bobby nearly has to sprint to keep up. They navigate through twists and turns and through some more back alleys and around dark corners.

At some point they’ve walked so far away from their starting point that the lights of the buildings are distant and far-off. They’ve entered that strange liminal space that is the quiet outskirts of a city, seemingly empty by way of the dark backstreets that cloak them from the hustle and bustle of weekend nightlife. The normal night sounds are muted, save for their footsteps and the occasional popping of gum.

The air around them is thick and strange, some kind of foreboding energy from events past hanging in the air and mixing with the sugary bubblegum scent, leaving an odd taste in Bobby’s mouth. Storm spoke nothing of it the whole walk. Not of the party nor of the argument, just her occasional reassurance that they’d be there soon.

Suddenly she stops in front of a nondescript building. He guesses this must be the place.

It’s nestled in the aged infrastructure, tucked away from the busy streets. Some windows are broken and boarded over, others so covered in dirt they can hardly qualify as windows anymore, the brick exterior weathered from lack of upkeep. Okay, this _really_ seems like the kind of place he’d be murdered.

Against all his good sense, he approaches the rusted front door. He tugs at the handle, covered in some kind of filth that makes him feel like he’s died inside as soon as he’s touched it.

“Front door won’t budge,” he says to Storm, wiping the muck onto his jeans. Shame, he loves these jeans. 

“Good thing we’re not going in through the front.”

She gestures for him to follow her up the fire escape on the side of the building. They scale the stairs and hop through a broken window before they drop down onto the aluminum walkway on the second floor of what looks like an abandoned warehouse. The walkway shakes and creeks with every step they take, Storm not seeming to care as she bounds down the adjacent metal staircase and onto the ground floor. Bobby takes a bit longer to join her, descending while practically clinging onto the guardrail before he makes it to the first floor.

There’s a weird dark stain on the ground that’s vaguely person-shaped. Yeah, someone was _definitely_ murdered here. Storm doesn’t seem to mind, teetering precariously on a pile of junk as she awaits his reaction.

“Cool, right?” she calls out, voice bouncing off the slab concrete walls.

What…the _ever-loving fuck_ …did she bring him here for?

“What is this place?”

“Dunno,” she answers as she hops off of the rubble, a thick plume of dirt billowing out from under her feet.

“I dunno much about this place to be honest,” she continues, pacing lazily about. “Rumor has it this place was gutted and set for demolition decades ago, but they never tore it down for some reason. It was just sitting empty for years.”

He looks around, makes note of the dilapidated walls and ceilings, leaky pipes dripping and sticking out in odd places. Graffiti is scattered among the grimy, soot caked interior walls. Debris in the form of splintered wood, broken glass, and scrap metal litters the floor, unlabeled glass bottles of varying degrees of emptiness scattered among the wreckage. Most notable are the old, busted fixtures interspersed on the ground floor, the paint chipped and faded on vintage washing machines and wooden desks and dented bedframes and cars with missing wheels and entire doors hanging off the hinges.

“You hauled _all_ this stuff here by yourself?” Bobby asks as he takes it all in.

“ _Fuck no baby!”_ she singsongs, loud enough to send the birds in a nearby tree outside scattering. “Most of it was here when I found the place!”

“How’d it all get here then?” he ponders quietly.

“Who knows?” she says, turning her face to the high ceiling and stretching her arms out around her, poised as if ready to take flight. “Who cares?!” she adds almost manically. The moonlight creeping through the broken windows shines a slanted beam across her features. The spotlight did always seem drawn to her in the most natural way onstage so it only makes sense that it’d be drawn to her out here.

It’d be beautiful if it wasn’t concerning.

“Might’ve been squatters, might’ve been vandals. Far as I’m concerned, it’s a _gold mine_ and all of it’s as good as mine now. No one comes here but me. And now, you,” she adds, walking towards an arsenal of various blunt objects lined up against the closest wall. She seems to size them up one by one as she walks down the line. She picks up a metal pipe, weighing it in her hands before putting it down and trying again. She stops in front of a golf club, slightly bent out of shape but ultimately still functional.

“Think fast!” she calls, tossing it towards Bobby who only barely catches it.

“Just so we’re clear,” Bobby says, twirling the club in his hands. “What exactly do you want me to do with this?”

“You know!” Storm replies, gesturing wildly around her. “Tear shit up! Everything here’s fair game, so go _fuckin’ bonkers_ , dude.”

“Hmm. Sounds dangerous.”

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little bit of danger?”

She picks up a half empty beer bottle on the floor next to her and, without warning or preparation, sends it flying into a far wall, exploding into glittering fragments of glass shards and old beer. Hell of an arm on her.

“Anything goes here, my friend. Anything goes.”

She walks over to a refrigerator with the doors ripped off and pulls out a boombox and an old milk crate full of cassette tapes tucked away behind it. She rifles through the tapes before she finds one she likes and blows some dust off of it, putting it into the tape deck and hitting play. First there’s static and then there’s the saccharine electronic beats of Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now” croaking out of the speakers.

“Just setting the mood,” Storm says when she sees the amused look on Bobby’s face. Ah, yes. The mood of ‘80s synthpop. Perfect for blowing off steam.

Storm’s weapon of choice is a hot pink baseball bat that was hiding underneath the remains of an old dresser. She grips the bat in her hands and dances to the music, blowing comically large pink bubbles and weaving through the wreckage, looking uncannily and unintentionally like Harley Quinn dipped in black. Just when she seems to choose the first thing she wants to break, she looks back at Bobby, standing still in the spot she left him as he observes her.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna let me have all the fun,” she calls out to him expectantly.

Bobby looks all around, surveying his surroundings to try to determine where he should even start. Overwhelmed by a strain of excess similar to the one he felt when he set foot in Chelsea and Lucas’ penthouse, he decides to just gives it a go and beat the shit out of the first thing he sees when he turns around. Lucky for him, it’s a TV with a 50-inch screen, practically begging for him to take a shot at it. He revs up his arm, letting all his pent up energy manifest in this swing, and lets go, the screen shattering with a satisfying crash before it falls to the floor.

Alright, this is pretty fun. Really fun actually. What else can he break?

His next target is a really ugly old lamp that practically crumbles with one hit, then after that is a shabby wooden chair, the legs splintering out in all directions when Bobby’s through with it. Soon he's just taking shots at any glass bottle within club's reach, the sound of breaking glass becoming almost melodic.

Bobby’s having a blast, destroying with no inhibitions. This is definitely the most fun he’s had all night. It’s when he looks up to tell Storm what a great idea this was that he realizes she’s not having as much fun as he is.

Her focus is squarely on an ornate gilded mirror propped up against a car, much too lavish to be in a place like this even in its relatively dingy state. It’s the perfect target to smash. And smash. And keep on smashing over and over again. She smashes and smashes until the glass has been reduced to nothing but fine dust in an empty frame and even after that she keeps on smashing.

Destroying it until beyond recognition doesn’t produce the results she wants apparently, as she moves on to the car holding the mirror upright, using all her strength to break all the windows that haven’t already been destroyed until they too are no more.

That still doesn’t seem to do the trick, so she moves on to the body of the car, whacking away at the hood and the doors. She keeps whacking and whacking, upping the speed and intensity as fast and hard as humanly possible in the hopes that something, anything will just give her the relief she’s looking for. It seems like each blow she delivers gets her even more incensed, pressure building up from the inside and threatening to burst, but no matter how hard she hits, it’s not making her feel better. She hits and hits and hits and hits, the metal underneath her bat buckling with each gratifying thud, so why, _why_ does she feel shittier with every hit? Why?

Finally she just stops.

Standing there quietly, blood pounding in her ears, she attempts to catch her breath as she assesses the damage. She could almost laugh. How the fuck does she feel _worse_ than when she started?

“Are you okay?” Bobby asks, approaching her carefully.

“ _Peachy,”_ she spits out, giving the car a final half-hearted _thwack,_ before she throws the bat far away from her, the sound of metal on concrete bouncing off the walls in tinny reverb.

_Oh._

“The fight. You're still upset.”

“ _Am not_ ,” she replies defiantly as she sits heavily on the hood of the car.

“Storm. You’re shaking.”

She looks down at her open, quaking palms, at the undeniable fact that she _is_ shaking and internally disintegrating when she finds that no matter how hard she tries to stop shaking, she just can’t.

Bobby asks again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”

No. She’s not.

What once was blind unabashed anger crumbles into sheer agony, crushing sadness creeping its way up through her spine and welling up in her throat. Slowly at first, very slowly, then all at once. She’s not gonna cry. The weight of it all, the pressure to not crack has her sinking, bringing her knees up to her chest and hoping by way of some miracle she’ll fold in on herself and disappear. She’s _not_ gonna cry. She _doesn’t fucking cry._

Ugh. He just _had_ to ask if she was okay.

“God _fucking_ dammit,” she groans, running her trembling fingers through her hair.

Bobby tosses his golf club and approaches tentatively, brushing away the glass shards on the hood before taking a seat beside her.

“Wanna talk about it?”

It takes her a moment and it’s just barely visible, but he sees her nod and lets her take her time before she starts speaking.

“I know I shouldn’t be but I just - ” She runs her hands up over the sides of her face then frantically over her scalp, clutching at her roots as if to keep herself grounded in reality.

“I can’t stop thinking about her. We’ve never fought like that and it’s really fucking with me the way we left it.”

She can’t stop staring at her hands. They just won’t stop shaking and she just can’t stop talking.

“I keep feeling like ‘what if I’m overreacting’ you know? What if I’ve just - !”

She clutches her hands into tight fists and still they shake. Worry grips her tightly and it feels like the room is spinning. The gum in her mouth makes her feel like she's choking on her own tongue, so she spits it out quick before she can asphyxiate.

“What if I've just totally _fucked_ it over something so _stupid_ and it’s – it’s just _over_ and we can’t go back to normal again?” she cries out, her breath coming and going in rapid, jittery exhales, threatening to become full-blown hyperventilation the further she spirals.“Then I’ve ruined my relationship _and_ my band and they’re the only things I have going for me and I just –”

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Bobby says as he gently takes both her hands into his own, firm and steady. He never takes his eyes off of hers, not once. She does, for a split second, to look down at her hands in his. They’re not shaking anymore.

“ _Breathe_ ,” he says. “Okay?” Demonstrating, he inhales and exhales slowly. She follows his lead, keeping time with his breathing until she’s built up a stable rhythm of her own. His hazel eyes staring into her glossy brown eyes act as a sort of tether, grounding her and sobering her up the more she emulates his breathing. All she has to do is keep breathing, he reassures her. Just keep breathing.

When she can finally think clearly, she realizes that this was _fucking embarrassing_ and she tears her hands and gaze away from his.

“Jesus Christ, you must think I look really pathetic right now, huh?” she says, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand, dismayed when her eyeliner comes off smudged on her skin.

“It’s not pathetic to feel hurt.”

“No,” she says, digging her fingernails into the black denim of her jeans, still not looking at him. “It was stupid of me to bring you here. You should just go home.”

“No way. I wanna show you a coping mechanism.”

“What’s the point? It’s not gonna work.”

“Even if it doesn’t, I’m not leaving you.”

“Well I’m not leaving before you do.”

“Fine by me,” he says as he stretches, relaxing as best as he can atop a car. “I could stay here all night.”

That’s a lie, his butt’s already getting sore and he really misses his bed, but Storm, thankfully, doesn’t call his bluff.

“Alright, genius,” she sighs, feeling sufficiently drained. “What’s your Great and Powerful coping mechanism?”

“I’m glad you asked,” says Bobby, sitting up straight. “First I need you to agree on something: no more girlfriend talk. For the rest of the night, she doesn’t exist. Alright?”

“But –”

“No buts! Only letting go. Now clear your head.”

“Fine, just,” she sighs heavily, screwing her eyes shut and rubbing her temples. “Just gimme a sec.”

“ _I’m clearing my head, clearing my head, clearing my head some more, aaand_ I’m done.” She opens her eyes. “What’s the next step?”

“Scream. Literally just scream.”

She raises an eyebrow before he explains further.

“Catharsis thing. Kinda like this but with less property damage. Letting it all out.”

He hops off the car, striding leisurely in front of Storm.

“It could be your favorite song,” he says before he belts out a couple lines to Green Day’s “Basket Case”. She’s not convinced.

“Doesn’t have to be words,” he adds. “You could just yell for the sake of it.”

He proceeds to scream bloody murder at the top of his lungs. Nothing.

“Could just be pure nonsense.”

“Nonsense such as…?” she asks without budging, staying still in her crouched position on the dented metal.

“My personal favorite is to just yell ‘bubbles’ in the angriest voice possible.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Am I, though?”

He clears his throat, making a show of grimacing exaggeratedly, and from within the deepest trenches of his diaphragm lets out a deep, throaty “ **BUBBLES!** ”

And for the first time since she left that party, she laughs.

She laughs so goddamn hard.

It’s not like it usually is, either warm and full, nearing a guffaw, nor dry and sarcastic, almost certainly preceding some quip or comeback. Her laughter is light, intoxicatingly bubbly, filling up the space around them to the point where Bobby feels like he’s drowning in her.

He has to bite his lip to keep from smiling as hard as he wants to when he sees her face light up, illuminating the dark warehouse like the moonbeams on the floor.

“You know you sound _fucking_ ridiculous right now,” she giggles.

“Kinda the point. Made you laugh, didn’t I? Besides, it’s just us. If you sound stupid, I’ll be the only one who knows.”

He yells again to demonstrate that there truly is no one else around. This time it’s more like, “Bubblesbubblesbubblesbubblesbubbles!”

Another small bout of laughter spills out from between her lips. Not enough to fill the space, but enough to leave him feeling just the slightest bit tipsy.

“Alright, alright, I’ll give it a try,” she says, hopping off the car. She clears her own throat, straightening her shoulders.

“Bubbles,” she calls out, without much enthusiasm at first.

“Aw, you can do better than that!”

“Bubbles!” she yells, more confidently.

“That’s it! Louder!”

“ **BUBBLES!** ”

“You got it!”

Bobby joins in, both yelling “Bubbles” over and over again. “Bubbles” quickly devolves into just screaming for the sake of it. In short, shrieking bursts, in drawn out guttural yells, at silly frequencies and volumes. They both howl until they’re hoarse and red in the face.

“Oh man,” Storm laughs, gasping for air. “I’ve got a better place we can scream if you really wanna see it.”

“Lead the way.”

She scoops up the boombox before they leave. Gotta have that music. Up the stairs and up the fire escape they go yet again, this time climbing higher as Bobby follows her to the roof.

He has no words, no space to scream as he looks out at the vast expanse beyond the rooftop. All he can do is look on in awe at the skyline he’d seen a million times before, but never like this.

He can see very clearly where the mostly abandoned buildings give way to the lively city, lifeless brick buildings progressively coalescing with the bright lights.

When he can finally tear his gaze away, he’s able to better analyze the rooftop itself. It’s more spruced up than the inside of the building, surely Storm’s doing, understatedly decorated with two plastic beach loungers overlooking the skyline and a cooler full of beer bottles floating in shallow water that he assumes was ice once upon a time.

Was it still busted as hell? Yes, there was dirt everywhere and half of it looked like it would collapse at any minute. But the rooftop itself didn’t matter anyway. The real star of the show was that view.

Storm sets the boombox down on one of the chairs just as a new song starts up: Taylor Dayne’s “Tell It To My Heart”.

“Christ, you’ve got really cheesy taste in music.”

“Oh, fuck you, this song’s a classic,” Storm replies as she dances and hums along to the track. “Come on, sing with me.”

“Hm?”

“Karaoke! I kinda owe you a rain check song so…? Sing with me?” she asks, muttering the lyrics.

“It’s not karaoke if you don’t know the words.”

“I do _too_ know the words!”

Except she doesn’t. When he agrees to sing with her, she knows maybe _half_ the chorus at best, but the rest is humming and vague guesses. Bobby at least knows a little more than she does, so he’s able to cover for both her lack of lyrical knowledge and singing ability. Even though neither know the song very well, they still have an excellent time making each other laugh with whatever outlandish dance moves they can think to accompany the music.

“Okay, we nailed that song," Storm says as the song finishes, even though they absolutely did not by any definition of the word nail anything. 

“You know what? " Bobby says. "We did sound pretty good.”

She goes in for a celebratory high-five, quickly recoiling when he raises his hand.

“Oh my god, you’re bleeding!”

Caught entirely by surprise, he looks down at his palm and sees that there is indeed a thin red gash going across his palm along with a whole mess of red covering the inside of his right hand.

Huh. So he is bleeding.

“S’just a scratch,” he says, wondering how neither of them noticed until just now.

“’Just a scratch’ nothing,” she huffs, rushing back to the fire escape. “Be right back,” she calls out as she descends.

A few drops of blood drip onto the knee of his jeans as he sits down. Not a good night for this pair of jeans. After a minute or so, Storm resurfaces with a first aid kit in hand.

“I’m gonna try and make this as quick as possible, ‘kay?” she says, lifting her hair up with one hand and pulling a scrunchie out of her back pocket with the other. Deep red. Just like the ones Marisol wears when she drums.

As she ties her hair up, Bobby’s able to better make out a tattoo on her inner bicep that he could never quite get a good look at: a capital “B”, faded from assumed years worth of wear, shaky and unorthodox like it was done on the fly with her own two hands. Just as quickly as the tattoo disappears, her hair is up and out of the way, shining as the pale moonlight hits it and frames her face in a soft glow.

She sits down in the chair beside him and gets to cleaning and dressing the cut, her fingers moving with the precision of a skilled medic. Or at least a regular person who’s done this a bunch of times. She’s got this habit where she pokes her tongue out when she really concentrates on something, minimal to the point where it’s just barely noticeable.

Bobby noticed it the first time he saw her do it and he definitely notices it now that her face is mere inches away from his own, his stomach doing little flip flops when he sees her tongue slide across her bottom lip.

“Doin’ a great job patchin’ me up, doc,” says Bobby.

“No need to thank me, it’s just gauze.”

“Give yourself more credit. Who knows what could’ve happened if you weren’t here to save me?”

“Well, I’m _hoping_ the blood would’ve clotted eventually.”

“ _Or_ I could’ve got a raging infection from your tetanus infested building.”

“Oh my god.”

“We might’ve had to amputate. My music career would’ve been _finished_.”

Ugh, he’s insufferable. Fuck it, she’ll play along.

“You are so right. If we waited just one more second, you might’ve bled out on the spot.”

“I’m just the luckiest man alive, aren’t I? From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”

She rolls her eyes in jest. This fuckin’ dude.

“Well if you really wanna thank someone,” Storm says. “Thank my brother for being a godawful skater when we were kids. You’d swear I was a professional with the amount of practice I had patching him up.”

“That bad?”

“Are you kidding? Dude bailed on his board every. Single. Day. I’m surprised his whole body’s not just one big scar now.”

“And here I was thinking there was no one worse than me.”

“Shut _up,_ you were a bad skater too? Now you _have_ to tell me a story.”

“Not going into detail, but I may or may not have broke my arm trying to impress a girl.”

“Ouch,” she replies, cringing. “But did you get the girl though?”

“Not even close. She signed my cast, so I guess that counts for something.”

She makes sure the bandage is secure in its place, double and triple checking but seeming reluctant to let go of his hand. She could always just keep her hand there. Bobby knows he wouldn’t be upset if she did.

“Hey, can I see your other hand?” she finally asks.

“Shit, is this one bleeding too?” he asks, panicked.

“No, no! I just wanna read your palms.”

“Uh-oh, somebody oughta tell Lottie you’re coming for her spot as resident mystic.”

“Joke’s on you, she’s the one that taught me. I just haven’t had a proper test dummy yet.”

She looks wistfully at her own hands.

“I tried to get Marisol to do it, but she wouldn’t let me. She thinks this kind of thing is silly,” she laughs morosely, smiling wryly down into her lap.

“Hey. What’d we agree on?”

“No girlfriend talk. Right. My bad.”

He holds his uninjured hand out for her and she takes it in both of hers. She says nothing more, tracing soothing, meandering lines along the lengths of his hands, her fingers skirting over his own in ticklish, featherlight strokes, a gesture a more naïve version of himself might mistake as loving.

Her hands are much like his, fingertips calloused from years of picking at thick guitar strings, yet somehow still soft to touch, strangely so. Once again she sticks her tongue out as she concentrates, humming and furrowing her brows whenever she notices something.

“Y’know, usually they talk during these things,” Bobby interrupts.

“Hm? Oh, sorry. Just got distracted I guess.”

“Does that mean it’s interesting?” he asks, sitting up straighter.

“Actually…everything’s pretty par for the course. Health line’s good, life line’s good, it’s all normal.”

“Aw, just normal?” he groans. “No specifics?”

“Cut me some slack, dude, I’m still an amateur.”

“Anyway, the only thing that’s tripping me up is this love line,” she says, running her pointer along the line just under his fingers.

“Oh no, I’m gonna be alone forever aren’t I?”

“Nah, nothing like that. I just haven’t seen anything like it before, so I can’t really make it out.”

She runs her finger over his love line again.

“You’ve got some really nice hands by the way. Like, not to sound weird or anything but your fingers are just. Y'know."

He bites his tongue to keep from bringing up their earlier tiff about fetishes. Still, it felt good knowing that she liked the one feature of his that he was truly proud of.

“Thanks. Glad to know all those piano lessons paid off.”

“I didn’t know you play piano.”

“Yup. Well, played. For about three years on and off and I was _miserable_ the whole time.”

“Oh, you poor thing.”

“Wasn’t all bad. I probably wouldn’t be a god at guitar if didn’t play piano first.”

Storm chooses to ignore that comment.

“You ever pick up a bass? You’ve got the hands for it.”

“Nah.”

He would never in a million years admit this to her face, but bass guitar never interested him until he met her. It was important, yes, for rhythm and time keeping, powerful and necessary, but ultimately not as interesting or dynamic as a standard six-string. Not until he saw her onstage did he think it could truly shine on its own.

“Never thought I was cut out for it,” he simply answers.

“Well, you should definitely consider trying your hand at it one of these days.”

“Try my _hand_ at it? Pun intended?”

“Pun _absolutely one hundred percent_ intended,” she laughs.

They sit and listen to the still-playing tape, the synthpop mix coming and going in fuzzy static as they look out at the city.

Storm looks like she’s got something on her mind, chewing on her bottom lip as she looks from Bobby’s hand to the cityscape then back to his hand.

After a moment of trepidation, she places her palm flat in his. It takes Bobby a second to comprehend what she’s doing but when he does, the proverbial butterflies in his stomach just about burst out of their imaginary cocoons and take flight all around his insides.

She’s comparing their hand sizes. Admittedly, nobody’s done this to him since he was maybe fifteen but you just can’t beat the classics. Even more surprising, though, is how small her hands are especially in comparison to his own.

“Bro, what the fuck,” she comments when she sees the stark difference.

“Whoa, your hands are _tiny_.”

“Oh, come on, they’re not _that_ small,” she frowns.

“Yes they are. Like a baby’s,” he teases.

“ _Like a baby’s,”_ she repeats, mocking his accent.

“How do you fret anything with these wee hands of yours?”

With a straight face and without a second thought, Storm stands up out of her seat, taking advantage of the height from her big ass platform boots to tower over Bobby, appearing even shorter now that he’s seated and she’s standing.

“Sorry sir, I didn’t see you down there,” she says, quite literally looking down at him.

“You’ve got the advantage on me when you’ve got your Big Boy Boots on, but they have to come off eventually. Then we'll see who's taller.”

Storm casually flips him off and he flips her off right back.

She sits back down and, so effortlessly neither even realize it, his hand is back in hers. They both savor the silence that settles around them. Somehow, some way, her fingers always make their way back to that ever so confusing love line.

“Love line that interesting?” Bobby asks.

“Hm?” she hums as she’s snapped out of her train of thought. “Oh, it’s nothing, just…thinking.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“Have…have you ever been in love before?”

Bobby’s shoulders tense and he instinctively pulls his hand back. Immediately it’s easy to sense his discomfort.

“I’m sorry. I get it if that’s too personal.”

“No, it’s fine, I’m just – ”

He sighs heavily, thrown aback by the question but ready to get it off his chest.

“Once,” he replies flatly, staring at his bandaged hand. “I was in love once and she…cheated.”

“Shit, Bobby, I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

He shrugs, keeping his gaze firmly on the gauze.

Truth be told, he hardly ever thought of his ex anymore. There was a point in time where she was the one thing on his mind, consuming his every thought even after he left her. He could at least say now with full confidence that she had been relegated to a single bad memory, a drop in the ocean that was his unconscious. The kind that drifted in and out in waves, resurfacing only at the rarest, most inopportune moments. The kind that often stayed, as it should, lost at sea, only emerging when something or other stirs and jars it back to the surface with a sharp and unpleasant jolt.

“What’s done is done,” he says unmoving. The sting is gone and the wound has closed up, but there’s only so much you can do to get rid of the pesky scar that gets left behind. “Can’t fault her for feeling the way she did.”

“It was still a shitty thing for her to do to you.”

“Well, at least I got some good songs out of the whole experience,” he responds, flipping his lighthearted persona back on. “Kinda hard to cry and sing at the same time.”

“Methinks you should learn how to deal with your emotions in a healthy way.”

“You first.”

“Alright, fair enough.”

The silence that follows is still comfortable, albeit heavier than the silence before the conversation started getting too deep.

“Sorry for being emotionally vulnerable, do you still think I’m cool?”

“Never thought you were cool in the first place,” Storm replies with a smile. “But I’ve already spilled my guts to you, so I’d say we’re pretty even on that front.”

Since they’re already getting to the personal questions, he may as well ask her one, right?

“Are you in love with Marisol?”

“Ooh, breaking the ‘no girlfriend talk’ rule?”

“Just had to ask,” he says, holding his hands up defensively. She glances over to the lights of the city.

“Yeah. I…” She hesitates for a moment, looking far off into the distance. “Yeah. I am.” she says more resolutely.

“Like, we’ve said I love you to each other,” she continues. “And I _really_ care about her. I really do.”

Bobby listens patiently, waiting for that “but…” he knows is about to follow.

“It’s just…it’s not that soppy kind of love like you see in the movies, y’know? She makes me happy. Like _really_ happy. But not in the ‘rom-com-butterflies-in-my-stomach’ kinda way. More like the ‘lets me hog the covers even if it’s really cold’ kinda way.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“I know, I know, it’s just…she’s my first relationship _ever_. I know life’s not a movie and it’s probably super corny and naïve of me to feel this way, but it’d still be fun to…I dunno…‘get swept off my feet’ or whatever.”

“No, I get that. You should hold on to that optimism, especially while you’re young.”

“You’re only two years older than me, _gramps._ ” she says, frowning as she elbows him softly in the ribs.

“Kidding. Seriously though, first relationships are always weird. Don’t try to put any pressure on it and just…let it happen.”

“Yeah,” she says, kicking up dust as they settle into another easy silence. “Let it happen.”

The trek back feels miles shorter. Storm popped another piece of bubblegum in her mouth sometime between ordering a car back to his place and lamenting about how shitty British weather is. This time the scent of gum is sweetly fragrant rather than suffocatingly potent as they walk into his building and back to his flat. She insisted she was fine, but he was adamant about her charging her phone at least a little bit before she left.

“Okay, so scale of one to ten, how bad was this adventure?” she asks as she plugs her phone into the wall next to the TV.

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” Bobby replies, flopping onto his couch. “I’ve definitely been through worse.”

She nods, not believing him at all, before her eyes fall onto a DVD case on his TV stand.

“Oh, is this that vampire movie with Aaliyah?” Storm asks, picking up his copy of _Queen of the Damned._

Ah. A relic from Tessa’s _Twilight_ phase. Every time she would have friends over, they’d watch some cheesy vampire flick. If he annoyed her with dinosaurs and Ninja Turtles, god knows she got on his last nerve with vampires. You couldn’t have paid him to watch most of the movies she liked, but the one he always sat through, in spite of all its flaws, was _Queen of the Damned._ The one thing it has that all the other movies could never compete with is the soundtrack and the general aesthetic. Bobby cringes with every rewatch, but it still holds a very dear place in his heart.

“I’ve never seen it before,” Storm says, carefully scrutinizing the cover. “Can we watch it?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to. It’s awful.”

“Then why do you have a copy?”

“Sentimental thing.”

She shrugs, putting the movie back where it was before collapsing on the couch next to Bobby while she waits for her phone to charge.

They chat while they sit through a rerun of _Kitchen Nightmares_ to keep themselves awake, hiding yawns behind their hands as the time ticks by. Day begins to break once Storm’s phone’s hit fifty percent which is good enough for her.

She goes to leave, Bobby hanging by the door to see her off.

“Sorry for keeping you out so late.”

“I told you it’s fine,” he says, fighting a yawn. “I’m more sorry about getting blood on your shirt. Are you sure you don’t wanna borrow one of mine or something?”

“Nah, I’m cool. I’ll just wash it when I go home,” she falters, aware of what she’s said before she’s even finished her sentence. It’s been on both of their minds that at some point she would have to go back home and she’s been dreading the moment she would face Marisol again.

“If you need a place to stay –”

“Bobby.”

“I’m serious.”

She smiles gratefully at him. She really appreciates everything he’s done, but she’ll have to reckon with the aftermath of what happened sooner or later.

“That’s really sweet of you. But I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m a big girl. Trust me.”

Fighting with her on this one would be more trouble than it’s worth, so he just lets it go. 

“Fine, just let me know when you’re somewhere safe, alright?”

“Alright, _dad_ , I will.”

She waves him off, walking away before she stops suddenly.

“Hey, Bobby? If you saw me being unstable…no you didn’t,” she adds before walking off and then stopping again.

“Also thanks for like…you know…yeah,” she says before walking off for real this time.

Her ponytail swinging as she walks away is the last he sees of her before he turns in for the night.

The soreness and fatigue start to set in as soon as he locks his front door and a long sleep after a hot shower is calling his name. He can’t wait to finally end this incredibly exhausting night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whenever i picture bobby’s dad in my head all i see is mat from dream daddy. i now realize i almost definitely subconsciously based bobby's dad on mat from dream daddy. yes i thought it was important enough to mention in the notes <3 as always thank you so much for reading! i'm really appreciative of the feedback i've gotten and i hope you're all enjoying it so far :)
> 
> i’ve already got the overarching story/general plot beats I wanna hit buuut if there’s any suggestions you have for something you wanna see lmk! or if you just have any alt music recs! im always looking for new stuff to add to my playlist and potentially base in-fic songs on 😚 
> 
> (also BRUH im so sorry i really wanna get these chapters to yall faster but writer blok b bonkin the shit outta my brain until the very last minute 😔 pls be patient wit me)


	6. the inherent eroticism of (friendly) rivalry

“We really need our own practice space.”

“Look, I’m just as frustrated as you are. But the fact of the matter is we don’t have one right now, so you know what we need to do.”

This is the fourth time today that Rocco’s complained about their lack of a proper practice space. It is also the fourth time today that Noah’s responded to his complaints and the fourth time that he’s wondered if joining this band was such a good decision after all.

“Gentlemen,” Noah continues. “For the third and final time today, ready your hands.”

All the members of Paisley Cuddle – Bobby excluded as he sits crisscrossed on Gary’s sofa with his guitar perched on his lap – brandish their fists to the middle of the semi-circle they’ve formed.

Under normal circumstances they’d be practicing in the garage of the middle-aged divorcee who rented it out to them for cheap as he was often out of town on frequent business trips, but the guy decided to be a dick and spike the rent right before it was due, insisting he needed the extra money. Something about his “bitch ex-wife” and “court ordered child support payments”. 

The guy was subject to some very colorful words before the band called quits on their arrangement.

The hunt for a new practice space was on, but until then it was up to chance to decide whose place they would haul their equipment to each practice. Gary’s been on a hot losing streak, so practice has been at his the last three times. 

Convenient for Gary because he didn’t fancy packing up his drum kit and putting it in Rocco’s van every time they wanted to practice. Inconvenient for Gary because he didn’t fancy pushing all his furniture to the side to make room for the other members’ instruments.

A sensible person might ask, “Wouldn’t it be easier to just have practice at the same person’s house every time?”

But the Paisley Cuddle members are far from sensible people and absolutely everything, no matter how small and inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, is a competition.

Rock, paper, scissors in this instance.

“Rock, paper – ”

“How come Bobby doesn’t have to play?”

“For the last time,” Noah groans, on the verge of a breakdown every time he has to repeat himself. “Bobby’s exempt because we can’t afford to have our singer evicted.”

Thank goodness for his downstairs neighbors and their newborn. Not for waking up half the building in the dead of night, but for giving him an excuse not to host practice. The one and only time the band practiced there, his neighbors were quick to rap on his door and threaten to file a noise complaint. The landlord would for sure have him evicted if he ever caught wind that other tenants were being disturbed (even though said tenants kept everyone else up at all hours with their crying child) so practice at Bobby’s was a no-go.

“Not like there’s room at Bobby’s anyway,” says Gary.

“Beats sharing with someone,” Bobby retorts with a short, punctuative twang of his guitar strings.

“Chat shit all you want, at least I’ve got somewhere to put my equipment.”

“Rather cram all my shit in my room than worry about some guy leaving his boxers on the couch.”

“Oi, you leave Dicky’s boxers out of this.”

“Men! Focus!” says Noah, growing more and more perturbed by the second. “Fists out.”

The guys ready their fists again before they sound off.

“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”

“ _Shit!_ ”

And Gary lost again! Damn, dude’s on a roll.

“I want a rematch!” he huffs.

“We did best two out of three, there are no rematches,” Rocco says.

“Show me in the rulebook where it says no rematches.”

“It’s fucking ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’, mate, there is no rulebook.”

“Exactly! Noah, back me up on this one!”

For all their bickering, Bobby notices almost none of it, absentmindedly plucking at his guitar and running his fingers over the cracks in the inlays as he frets. His irritation grows as he tries to make sense of this tune he’s had brewing in his head for a few days and hoping it will manifest in something solid soon.

It keeps happening over and over again; right when the ghost of a melody materializes before him, it dissipates before he can properly grasp it, leaving him with the bitter remnants of what could have been. He’s hoping this creative rut will be over before he buys his new guitar tomorrow.

Usually it’s hard for him to justify buying a new one whenever the impulse strikes, seeing as a decent one would take up a sizable chunk of his savings and he’s already got four on heavy rotation, mounted awkwardly in various spots around his bedroom wherever there’s free space. 

As it stands, however, his current gear doesn't really cut it when they record music. It's fine for live shows, but the wear from years of use doesn't give them that sharp sound they need for recordings. They want to get their first EP out fast, so if there was ever a time to invest in a guitar that would last _and_ sound good it was now.

Bobby looks up from his guitar to see Noah taking a seat beside him on the couch, having been adequately drained of energy for peacekeeping at the moment as he ignores Gary and Rocco’s ongoing squabble.

“D’you have a second?” Noah says as he turns to Bobby. “I think I could use some advice.”

“You want my advice?” Bobby asks with raised eyebrows.

“I mean, it’s either you or…”

Noah nods over to Gary and Rocco – the latter rubbing his temples exasperatedly, yelling “How are you so loud _and_ wrong?” while the former continues being loud and wrong – before he looks imploringly back at Bobby.

“Okay, I see your point,” says Bobby. “What’s up?”

“See, I’ve got this…thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah. A thing.”

Boy, that Noah sure doesn’t skimp on detail.

“Well, it’s more of a dilemma actually.”

“Oh, yikes.”

“I know.”

Noah lets out a deep sigh, settling further into his seat and anxiously drumming his fingers against his thigh.

“So this thing,” he continues. “I wanna fix it, but I’ve played out every possible scenario in my head and there’s no outcome that doesn’t end in someone getting hurt.”

“No specifics?” Bobby asks, knitting his eyebrows together. “‘Cause you’re not really giving me much to work with here.”

Noah shrugs, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck like he has something more to say before decisively shaking his head.

“I…I can’t go into detail right now but…”

Well _obviously_ it’s the Priya/Hope thing, but Bobby can’t let him know he already knows. Though he was curious about how everything was playing out behind the scenes. 

Considering he told Priya to go after Noah knowing fully well he and Hope already had a thing, the situation was weighing on him. Not like super heavily because they’re grown and they ultimately have the final say so over their actions, but you know. He felt the adequate amount of responsibility for the small part he played.

“...I’m at a metaphorical crossroads and for the life of me I can’t figure out what I should do,” Noah says, looking expectantly at Bobby who was only half paying attention. Not that it matters though, everything he _was_ listening to was vague as hell.

“...I’d say just go with your gut.”

“I was afraid you were gonna say that.”

Well, shit, what else is he _supposed_ to say?

“Ask a generic question, you get a generic answer,” Bobby says, turning his attention back to his guitar.

Evidently not the answer Noah was looking for but perhaps...the answer he needed...or whatever bullshit he needed to hear that would convince the both of them this conversation wasn’t a total waste of time.

He nods solemnly, no better off now than he was before.

“So…good talk?” he asks, not at all convinced the talk was good. 

“Yeah,” Bobby answers. He's not convinced either. “Good talk.”

“ _Do you hear yourself right now?_ ” Rocco cries, promptly grabbing Bobby and Noah’s attention.

Somehow fighting about Rock, Paper, Scissors turned into fighting about Uno, Gary absolutely insisting that you’re allowed to put a Draw 2 over a Draw 4 while Rocco nearly tears his hair out from frustration.

“Guess I should get these two under control then, huh?” Noah says, clapping Bobby amiably on the shoulder before leaving to confront their two bickering bandmates.

Bobby indifferently runs through random chords until his phone pings with a message.

# Lotta 🔮💫

####  **Monday** , 4:13 PM

Lotta🔮💫
    nooo it was yrs ago. but it wasn't revenge! think of it like karmic retribution 😜

Bobby
    Lottie you keyed the man’s car 

Lotta🔮💫
    okay and??? serves him right for cheating 😪

####  **Today** , 2:27 PM

Lotta🔮💫
    hey
    we should hang out later

``

By hang out, she definitely means toke up and fuck. He sure would love to, but alas. 

# Lotta 🔮💫

####  **Today** , 2:27 PM

Lotta🔮💫
    hey
    we should hang out later

Bobby
    Can't. Practice.

Lotta🔮💫
    aww booo you’ve been at practice literally every time i’ve texted u this week >:’( im bored 

Bobby
    Mayhaps you wouldn't be bored if u practised with ur own band 🤔

**Read** 2:27 PM

Lotta🔮💫
    kinda hard to do that when half the band won’t even talk to each other 

``

She was of course referring to Marisol and Storm. He hadn’t had much of a chance to have a proper conversation with her in the two weeks that had passed since their “adventure”, but she did check in to let him know they were pretty much avoiding each other. 

Pretty crazy (and dare he say...impressive?) that they’ve kept the act up so well despite living together.

# Lotta 🔮💫

Bobby
    Oof. They're still not talking?

Lotta🔮💫
    they barely even LOOK at each other from what i've heard
    marisol practically lives in the library now and storm stays holed up at home like 24/7

Bobby
    damn that's crazy

**Read** 2:28 PM

Lotta🔮💫
    you could at least pretend to sound interested 🙄

``

It’s not that he’s not interested, it’s just very hard to focus over the sound of a bunch of grown ass men loudly arguing over a card game.

# Lotta 🔮💫

Lotta🔮💫
    anyway it’s whatever, we can hang tomorrow if it’s cool 

Bobby
    Sorry :/ can’t hang tomorrow either, i’m buying a new guitar 

Lotta🔮💫
    that’s an all day thing 🤨

Bobby
    It is if ur a professional 🙈

Lotta🔮💫
    you are so hilarious. my sides are literally splitting. dear lord i wish you could see how hard i am laughing right now 😐

Bobby
    Glad to know I can make you laugh even when I’m not around 😚

**Read** 2:28 PM

Lotta🔮💫
    

``

The sound of Gary exasperatedly banging his drumsticks on his cymbals effectively pulls Bobby out of his text conversation. 

Somehow his bullshit knowledge of Uno rules was ridiculous enough to make Noah throw his own rationality out the window, now arguing instead of mediating like he said he would.

"Okay! Okay! _But consider this!_ " Gary yells. "If you _really_ think about it, 2+2 is 4 so _technically_ you can stack them over a Draw 4. That's just basic mathematics." 

"Gary, you're an actual monster," Rocco replies.

"That's _literally_ textbook cheating," Noah adds.

"You call it cheating, I call it ingenuity!" Gary asserts. 

Bobby gets another message.

# Lotta 🔮💫

Lotta🔮💫
    where r u getting the guitar at 

Bobby
    Yk that shop like 10 minutes from where i live 

Lotta🔮💫
    oh brother 🤢 
    see that’s where you’ve already fucked up 

Bobby
    Fym “Oh brother 🤢” I get all my strings from there >:( 

**Read** 2:29 PM

Lotta🔮💫
    the strings are fine but this is a whole guitar ur talking about.
    this kind of decision takes 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮

`👺`

_Finesse, she says._

# Lotta 🔮💫

Lotta🔮💫
    this kind of decision takes 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮

Bobby
    👺

**Read** 2:29 PM

Lotta🔮💫
    anyway, ik a guy who sells guitars for super cheap
    i might even be able to convince him to give you a discount 
    gives us an excuse to hang and u get a good guitar without spending your whole life savings

``

...A tempting offer.

Bobby seriously considers saying yes seeing as for the past two weeks he’s done nothing but practice and songwrite (or rather stare at blank pages for hours on end, hoping inspiration will strike out of thin air before abandoning all hope and going to sleep).

Before he even has a chance to reply with a definitive answer she sends him the address. 

Turns out the place is _an entire goddamn hour away._

# Lotta 🔮💫

Bobby
    

Bobby
    is there a reason it's so far away

Lotta🔮💫
    don’t worry about it 

Bobby
    

Bobby
    Well now I'm worried 😐

Lotta🔮💫
    distance is a small price to pay i promise 😜
    The vibes in this place are immaculate istg u wont regret it 

Bobby
    
    .......perhaps i am stupid
    Or just a really good friend
    But ig i'll see you there tomorrow 😔

**Read** 2:31 PM

Lotta🔮💫
    awesome 😈
Lotta🔮💫
    

``

Another outburst from his friends grabs his attention.

“What do you mean I can’t reverse a skip?” Gary grumbles, punctuating every syllable of every word with a short cymbal crash.

“I mean exactly what I said!” Noah replies. “The whole point of a skip card is that you’ve been skipped.” 

“So _I_ can’t reverse a skip, but _everyone else_ can skip a reverse?”

“ _No?!_ ” Rocco and Noah both blurt in horrified unison.

This Uno spat doesn't seem to be showing any signs of slowing down any time soon.

...Bobby's gonna have to be the one to break this thing up, isn't he? He receives another notification on his phone.

# Lotta 🔮💫

    is it cool if i ask storm to come too? idk if she'll say yes but it's worth a shot.

Bobby
    Sure, it's fine with me
    But afaik she doesn't know anything about electric guitars

Lotta🔮💫
    yeah ik, i just wanted to get her out of the house yk? it's been a minute since she and i have done something fun
    i don't think she's ready to go somewhere intense like a show or something
    but maybe a chill day picking out guitars is what she needs

Bobby
     Awww lottie that's actually rlly thoughtful of you 

Lotta🔮💫
    don't sound so surprised 
    is it that shocking that i wanna do something nice? 😒

Bobby
    

Lotta🔮💫
    🙄
    i might be a bitch but i'm a bitch who cares about her friends

Bobby
    Your words not mine 😬
    Anyway!
    Invite her 😊 could be fun 

**Read** 2:33 PM

Lotta🔮💫
    alright. about to ask her rn.
    i gtg but lmk what time you wanna meet ✌🏻

``

Bobby gets up from the couch, grabbing his guitar and shoving his phone in his back pocket as he joins his band members who’ve all but fallen into chaos in the few minutes that have passed since this whole Uno debacle started. 

God, wouldn’t it be entirely too funny if the band broke up because Gary doesn’t know how to play Uno? 

The answer to that question, Bobby decides, is “Yes, it would be fucking hysterical”.

“So you mean to tell me,” Gary says slowly. “That I’m _not_ allowed to skip a plus 4?”

“No!” Rocco yells. “In what world can you skip a plus 4?”

“Gary,” Noah says, looking extremely concerned. “How the hell have you been playing Uno all these years?”

“With joy in my heart and ignorance in my brain apparently.”

“God, I wish that were me.”

“Never thought I’d have to be the voice of reason,” Bobby chimes in to get their attention, slinging his guitar strap over his shoulders. “But can we please start practice already?”

“Sure thing. Long as these two are done shitting on my superior methods of thinking,” Gary says, pointing an accusatory drumstick at Rocco and Noah who groan in protest.

“Gary, I am this fucking close I swear to god,” Rocco says, aggravatedly running his hands over his face.

“Nope,” Bobby interrupts. As much as he would _love_ to egg them on, they’ve got work to do. “Save that energy for the music, boys.”

  
  


An ominous feeling started eating away at Bobby when he first set foot outside that afternoon. He ignored that feeling of impending doom even when he caught a glimpse of the telltale gray clouds hanging low over the sky and felt the first droplets of rain fall on his face before he boarded the train. 

He chose to stay optimistic about the morning’s forecast, trusting that the weather report calling for a low chance of light showers would be true and that the rain would pass before he arrived at his destination.

Well, it turns out weather reporters are filthy fucking liars. This is a torrential downpour _at best_. 

In his rush down the sidewalk to evade the heavy rain, he internally curses himself for going as far as to tempt fate and forgo an umbrella entirely in favor of one of his old hoodies. A terrible decision in hindsight, it’s already drenched and he’s barely four blocks out from the train station.

His shoes are no better off, the growing puddles dotted up and down the sidewalk seeping through his Converse and into his socks, squelching with every impact his feet make on the pavement.

His freezing hands stay stashed away in his pockets, withdrawn every so often so he can take a look at his phone to make sure he’s headed in the right direction.

He’s got the address committed to memory at this point, but he still takes a quick look at the map just to be sure. Should be just around the corner.

The swift breeze that sweeps through the air sends a shiver down Bobby’s spine as he pulls his soaked arms closer to his body in a last ditch attempt to garner some warmth.

 _The guitars here better play themselves for all the trouble I’ve gone through,_ he thinks, teeth chattering as he picks up the pace.

He scurries down the sidewalk, waterlogged shoes sloshing against the concrete as he turns the corner and skids to a sudden stop in front of a vampire-like figure wielding a black umbrella.

“There you are.”

“ _Jesus!_ ” he exclaims, heart pounding as he collects his wits and inspects the shadowy visage that startled him. 

Not a vampire. Just Lottie lurking spookily near the entrance to the shop, the hood of her jacket concealing her hair and much of her face.

“Did I scare you?” she asks with a smirk.

 _Yes._ He thought she was turning into a fucking bat.

“...No.”

“I totally scared you.”

“...Fuck off," he replies to which she snickers.

"Any sign of Storm?" he asks.

She shrugs. "She said she'd be here soon, but I dunno for sure if she'll actually show up," she says, crossing her fingers for luck.

Not wanting to waste any more time in this miserable weather, they push through the front door.

The bell hanging above the door rings through the mostly empty shop, the scent of cinnamon and pine hitting Bobby’s nose as soon as he walks in. He allows himself a moment to bathe in the cozy glow of the incandescent lighting that directly contrasts the dull gray outside as “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac floats softly out of the mounted speakers. He pulls his hood down, the warmth of the central heating already seeming to dry his damp clothes. 

The comforting rustic aesthetic makes him feel at home among the glass display cases and shelves full of instruments and the rows of vinyl records that seem to go on for miles, just demanding to be scoured and listened to. Bobby’s eyes are immediately drawn to the section in the back totally decked out in guitars of all makes and models.

The near-vacant music shop seems to exist in its own comforting corner of the universe, a well-kept secret far removed from the bleakness just beyond the front door. The lack of people - aside from the guy behind the register whose face is obscured by the magazine he reads and a balding man leisurely thumbing through vinyls - adds to the dreamy, otherworldly feel.

It pains Bobby to say it, but perhaps the vibes here _are_ immaculate.

Whether it was worth the hour-long trip and the wet clothes remains to be seen.

The man behind the register lowers his magazine when he hears customers enter the store, surprised that more showed up after such a slow day. Surprise turns into delighted recognition when he sees that the new customer is none other than his pal Lottie sheathing her umbrella beside Bobby.

“Lottie!” the man calls out. “What brings you to this part of town? Finally takin’ me up on those music lessons after all?”

“In your dreams, Nicky,” she replies as she places her umbrella in the umbrella stand and lowers her hood. “My friend here is in the market for a new guitar.”

“Well, you came to the right place! Have a look around and let me know if something catches your eye.”

The sound of the bell chiming grabs their attention, Bobby and Lottie expecting to see Storm, only to be greeted by the arrival of a guy whose face is hidden behind the heavy stack of cardboard boxes he carries, soaked from the rain and threatening to fall apart.

“Need a hand with that?” Nicky asks, hurrying over to the man’s side.

“I got it,” the man answers, his clipped tone strained from the weight of the boxes.

Nicky helps anyway, grabbing the two topmost boxes and setting them down over on the counter, revealing the taciturn face that was hidden behind them.

“Y’know you can always ask me for help if you need it,” he adds, reaching for another box. 

Their hands brush as the exchange happens, the guy’s posture stiffening as their fingers touch. After a beat of apprehension, he takes a step back.

“I’m fine,” he says, pushing past him and into the back room behind the register with the remaining boxes in his hands, Nicky’s eyes following him forlornly as he disappears.

Something about that interaction was incredibly rancid but Bobby can’t seem to put his finger on why. Nicky seems to catch on to Bobby’s suspicion, cheeks darkening when he sees the puzzled look on his face.

“Just Seb being Seb,” Nicky remarks, picking up the boxes left on the counter. “Holler if you need me, ‘kay?” 

And with that, he too disappears into the back room. Bobby waits until he’s certain he’s out of earshot to talk again.

“So what’s the deal with those two?” he asks Lottie. 

She doesn’t answer him right away, motioning him to follow her over to a bin of second-hand records, browsing disinterestedly so as not to seem inconspicuous as she leans in cautiously.

“Okay, so officially they’ve told me they're ‘just friends’. At least that's what Seb says anyway,” she whispers. “But if you ask me, they’ve _definitely_ got a thing going on.”

“What kind of thing?”

“That’s the thing!” she hisses frustratedly. “Every time I ask one of them about it, they just chalk it up to a friendly competition over who can make more sales, but something about it is a little too horny if you ask me.”

This all seems a bit “conspiracy theory”, but that does seem to be Lottie’s schtick, doesn’t it?

“Maybe you’re just reading too much into it,” Bobby says, to which she adamantly shakes her head.

“No way. I think something happened between them recently. Something big. I’ve done tarot readings on both of them - ”

“Sketchy.”

“ _And_ all signs point to ‘fated to fuck’.”

“ _Or_ they really are just friends.”

“The cards don’t lie, Bobby,” Lottie says, frowning. “Besides, it’s impossible to be that close with your competition for that long and not want to have sex with them.”

“Lottie,” he says. “You can’t just say shit like that without explaining yourself.”

She clasps her hands together in a praying motion in front of her face as she sucks in a deep breath.

“The inherent eroticism of rivalry,” she says, like that’s the official peer-reviewed name or something.

“Adrenaline and arousal are _directly linked_ ,” she continues. “So it stands to reason that spending too much time with someone you hate will result in sex.”

“I...don’t think that’s actually a thing.”

“I’m telling you _from experience_ it’s a thing,” she asserts. “Enemies to lovers is _the_ quintessential rom-com trope! Hello? _10 Things I Hate About You? Pride and Prejudice? The Proposal?_ ”

Her rant about rom-coms is interrupted as Seb and Nicky step out of the back room, in a tense conversation that seems to be more talking on Nicky’s side and more gestures and facial expressions on Seb’s. 

Seb searches for something in the register, frustration growing the longer he shuffles through the contents and spats with Nicky. He finally retrieves what he was looking for, a rusty key, before shutting the register, intent on returning to the back room only to have his path blocked by Nicky.

Nicky says something inaudible and reaches out to touch Seb’s shoulder, Seb immediately recoiling when the other man’s hand makes contact. There’s a sadness intermingled with a confusion that settles onto his features as he steps back, looking down at his own feet before pushing past his co-worker and into the back room again, Nicky following after him.

“Look. Believe what you want,” Lottie says, craning her neck to follow the guys as they disappear into the back room again. “All I know is that if they haven’t fucked already, they’re going to. Real soon. Mark my words.”

The bell at the front door rings yet again signalling a newcomer shaking out their umbrella, wearing what can only be described as a hazmat hoodie, the strings pulled taut so their hood obstructs every inch of their face save for their eyes and the mess of gray hair that threatens to spill out from the top. 

Looks like stormy weather showed up after all.

Storm loosens the strings on her hoodie, waving at them as they walk over to greet her.

“I was wondering when you would show,” Lottie says.

“Oh, well, you know,” Storm says, lowering her hood and letting her hair tumble over her shoulders.

It’s a foreign sight, her silver hair sleek straight today instead of it’s normal alternation between loose waves and bouncy natural curls. The sweet scent of coconut remains a pleasant constant.

“Overslept, spent way too long straightening my hair and _then_ I missed my train, so like. That was fun," she says, shaking off the water that clings to her sleeves. "What’s up with you guys though?”

“Just trying to settle something," Bobby responds.

“Settle what?"

“She thinks Nicky and Seb secretly wanna shag because they hate each other.”

“Oh, that! You had a whole name for it, didn’t you? Something, something, ‘erotic’...?”

“The inherent eroticism of rivalry.”

“That’s it! Yeah, I remember. I’m still on the fence about it.”

“Thank you!” Bobby exclaims. “Like I said, it’s probably nothing.”

“Oh,  _ no _ ,” Storm says. “They definitely wanna fuck. The thing I’m confused about is the name. I thought they were at least friends?”

“Yeah, well, ‘the inherent eroticism of friendly rivalry’ doesn’t quite have the same ring to it,” Lottie says, crossing her arms. “But believe me when I say they’re trying to smash.”

“I mean, I believe it just fine, but you don’t really have any proof.”

“And how do you suppose I _get_ proof?”

“You could always ask one of them. Why not ask Seb?”

“Ask me what?”

They all go dead silent as the aforementioned shopkeeper walks out of the back room, dabbing the sweat on his brow with the back of his sleeve, out of breath as he leans against the side of the counter.

“Just a small favor. A teensy one really.”

“What a coincidence,” he says. “I was just about to ask a quick favor of  _ you _ , Lottie.”

“What kind of favor?”

“We just got a new shipment in. It’s more than usual, so I need some assistance sorting it.”

“Why me exactly?” Lottie questions with raised eyebrows. “The guy who co-owns the shop is literally right back there.”

The sheer mention of the guy who co-owns the shop with him makes his eyes flicker darker for just a moment.

“...He doesn’t have the expertise I’m looking for,” he simply answers, the coolness of his tone in stark contrast with the intensity in his eyes. “You know a thing or two about music, so I was hoping you could help me out.”

“And what’s in it for me?”

“You get to ask me that question you’re dying to know about.”

“You’d be hard pressed to convince me manual labor is worth one single question.”

“You know your worth. I respect that,” he replies, scratching his beard contemplatively. “I’ve got a vintage Xmal Deutschland with your name on it. Mint condition. Wasn’t planning on selling it, but it’s yours to keep if you help me.”

“… _ Tocsin _ or  _ Fetisch _ ?”

“ _ Incubus Succubus, _ in its original packaging. Never been opened.”

Oh damn. Rare one like that would be hard to pass up.  _ And  _ this would be a good opportunity to siphon gossip about where he and Nicky stand.

“And I get to ask you  _ anything  _ I want? And you’ll answer truthfully?”

“Cross my heart.”

“...I accept.”

She moves to follow Seb, stopping to whisper "I'm gonna try and play Cupid while I'm back there," to Bobby and Storm before disappearing into the back room.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” Storm says.

Funny how that keeps happening.

Instead of heading for the guitars, she makes herself at home among the first of many long rows of alphabetized vinyls, stopping at the very beginning of the A-E section

She picks up the first vinyl she gets her hands on.

A for ABBA.

She hums the tune to “Voulez Vous”, running a finger over the cellophane encasing the ABBA members’ youthful faces.

Bobby follows her, hands in his pockets, trying to appear innocuous as he asks “So...how are things?”

“If you wanna know about me and Marisol, all you gotta do is ask,” she says without looking up.

Subtlety never was Bobby’s strong suit.

“Have you and Marisol worked things out yet?”

_ “ _ No. Not yet.”

“Okay,” he says. “Have you at least  _ tried _ talking to her?”

“... _ No _ ,” she admits, pushing the ABBA record back in place. “We’re both too stubborn to be the first one to say something.” 

She laughs humorlessly, balling her hands into loose fists.

“God, I already know what Lottie would say if she was here right now. ‘This is what you get for dating a Capricorn, Miss Aries,’” Storm says in a very bad impression of an Aussie accent, bumping her fists together like a ram and a goat butting heads.

“The thing is...I don’t even care about the thing at the party at this point,” she sighs. “It was never really about that honestly. If I could just get a genuine apology from her without all the over analytical bullshit, I’d be totally fine.”

“Maybe you should tell her that."

Well. Technically she could. Going this long without talking to her girlfriend was killing her. Unfortunately, her pride gets in the way every time and prevents her from being the bigger person, _especially_ when she thinks she’s been wronged.

“Nah,” Storm says, picking the fluff off her hoodie. “Ball’s in her court now.” 

“But enough about my dumb relationship stuff,” she says, going from somber to jovial like the flip of a switch. 

She carries on leisurely down the long row of records before she picks another one up, turning it over in her hands as she inspects it.

D for Death Grips.

“Soooo, what’s up with you and goth gf?” Storm asks, looking up from the copy of  _The Money Store_ she holds. “Do you like... _like_ her?” she asks, hiding her mouth behind her free hand like a kid trading secrets on the playground. 

“No,” Bobby answers flatly.

“Are you sure?” she singsongs, exaggeratedly smirking and wiggling her eyebrows.

“One hundred percent.”

The smile is gone from her face in an instant. 

“ _ Liar. _ ”

“I’m not lying,” he says.

She puts  _ The Money Store  _ back where she found it and walks right past F-K and straight to L-P, strolling a few feet until another record catches her eye.

N for Nine Inch Nails.

“I dunno if you knew this, but everybody has a tell when they lie,” she replies, running her thumb across the tops of the records in front of her. She looks very carefully at a copy of  _ Pretty Hate Machine  _ before tucking it neatly back in place.

“ _ You _ do this thing where you scrunch your face up and purse your lips,” she says, mimicking the look she described.

“Do  _ not _ ,” he replies defensively, quickly fixing his face when he feels himself making the exact expression she just made.

“So you  _ definitely  _ like her!”

“ _ No. _ We’re just friends...with benefits.”

“But not the benefits you want, huh?”

He crosses his arms and unintentionally makes his lying face again, to which she giggles before she continues perusing down the long line of vinyls.

“Don’t get all upset on me. I think it’s sweet that you like her.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those people that think you can’t have sex without strings attached.”

“No. I think  _ other _ people can,” she says, moving expeditiously towards the vinyls in Q-V, maneuvering around the balding man sifting through Rolling Stones albums at a leisurely pace. 

“I  _ know  _ other people can,” she adds, scowling as her fingertips skitter across the tops of the albums in front of her. Her scowl dissipates when she seems to find something of interest to her.

Q for Queen. 

She picks up  _ Sheer Heart Attack  _ and  _ Hot Space,  _ each in their own respective hand.

“You, however, can not. You wouldn’t have sex with someone unless you had feelings for them,” she continues, carefully scrutinizing the two records she holds _. _ “You don’t have it in you.”

“Sure I would,” he replies indignantly.

Storm sets both records down with a dull clatter and puts her hands on her hips, staring blankly at Bobby. 

“Would you fuck Gary?” she deadpans, loud enough to make the Rolling Stones fan next to them do a double take, looking up in confusion at the two of them before minding his business and cautiously resuming his browsing.

“What kinda question is that?” Bobby asks.

“Just answer the question. Would you have sex with your dear friend Gary?” 

“I mean...if he asked I wouldn’t say no.”

“Are you being difficult on purpose?”

“He’s a good-looking lad.”

She exhales hard, looking him up and down. She studies him carefully before she changes her approach, walking towards him until she’s close enough to count every individual freckle that dots his face.

“Alright, different question,” she says, cocking her head to the side, full lips fixed into a crooked smile. “...Would you fuck me?”

“ _ I’m sorry? _ ” he stammers, warmth quickly rising in his cheeks under her scrutinizing gaze. 

This is like the beginning of the worst porno ever. He doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry.

“You heard me,” she says, her voice a husky whisper as she repeats herself painfully slowly, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. 

“Would. You. _Fuck._ Me?”

That particular emphasis on “ _fuck_ ” makes Bobby’s heart skip into his throat, unwittingly breathing deeper to compensate for the breathlessness he experiences at her mercy. 

The air he consumes is thick with cinnamon and pine and the heady scent of coconut, clouding his mind and his lungs and fogging up the very obvious answer to her question.

He’s supposed to say no. She wants him to say no. 

He knows in his heart of hearts that this is one of those games she loves to play so much, made plain by the unflinching eye contact meant to dissuade him as if the way she’s looking at him would ever convince him to say no and as if anything other than no was an option in the first place.

But now that she’s just inches away from him and staring him down with a very convincing “I wanna tear you apart” look, he’s tempted to say yes, I absolutely would fuck you if given the chance. 

It’s those dark eyes and that wicked grin sending him into a spiral that makes it impossible to think straight and just say no like she wants him to.

He searches for something else to direct his attention to, eyes immediately going to the vinyls directly beside him, picking up the first one his fingers touch. His heart stops when he reads the cover.

S for Siouxsie and the Banshees.

_ We are **still** entranced, entranced, entranced, entranced, entranced, entranced. _

Bobby’s unwillingness to give a definitive answer is adequate enough for Storm apparently, trading her stern expression for finger guns and a cheesy grin as she takes several steps back.

“Gotcha!” she exclaims, her shift in demeanor shocking him sober.

“Hm?” he hums, still groggy from her trancelike pull.

“Just now. You hesitated. Because you  _ wouldn’t _ fuck me,” she says, smugly biting her lip. “Am I right or am I right?” 

_ You are so wrong and it hurts so bad.  _

“You wouldn’t fuck me because we’re just friends,” she elaborates, just to  _ really  _ rub salt in the wound. “You  _ do _ fuck Lottie because you like her.” 

And with that, she strolls past the remaining vinyls and back toward the guitars like nothing happened, Bobby following closely behind.

“That - ! That doesn’t prove anything!” he says.

“Keep tellin’ yourself that," she mutters as she carefully surveys a rack of guitars, looking for one she thinks he would like.

“What do you think about...this one?”

She points him to the first decent guitar she sees; electric blue with a matte finish and sharp edges, dangerous and intriguing. Not his usual style, but it sure would kick ass on stage. 

He grabs it off the rack, immediately sensing something off about the weight distribution. He shakes his head before hanging it back up.

“Let’s keep looking,” he says.

He sifts through a few more, all equally weird insofar as the placement of the knobs and tuning pegs, before Storm signals for him to look at something else she's found.

“Any of these tickle your fancy?” she asks, gesturing towards one section in specific full of novelty guitars.

All of them, actually. He thinks all of them are pretty funny. 

Scratch that, all but one of them are “pretty funny”. The one shaped like a dick is _fucking hilarious._

“Well, _I_ love them, but something tells me I’m not gonna get away with using any of these onstage.” 

“Oh, come on, what’s wrong with this one?” she asks, pointing at one that’s literally just. A square. It is a square with strings. 

Bobby frowns.

“Well, that one’s just ugly.”

“Okay, valid.”

“Whoa, check this one out,” she says, grabbing one shaped like the leg lamp from  _ A Christmas Story.  _ It’s not just a guitar shaped like a woman’s leg, no, somebody went the extra mile and crafted a guitar shaped like the lamp shaped like a woman’s leg from  _ A Christmas Story.  _

“Eyes on the prize, Storm.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll get serious in a second but please do me a favor and just look at this one.”

She directs his attention to a guitar with the body of a grinning shark. Okay, this is the best one hands down. Not to actually buy, but it put a little smile on Bobby’s face and that’s enough for him.

“So?” Storm asks, looking expectantly between Bobby and shark guitar.

“Will you take my picture with it?”

”Of course.”

After a quick photo op with shark guitar, they move on from the novelty guitars and get down to business.

He's shocked by the stock that surrounds him, gear that would normally cost more than his rent going for half the usual asking price. They're all almost too good to be true. Too bad Bobby’s not feeling any of them. 

It’s like there’s a guitar tailor-made for every person in the world except him. They’re all too big or too small or too flashy or too dull or the wrong color or the wrong size and don’t even get him _started_ on that godawful one with the lime green polka dots.

Not to get too “pretentious artist”, but none of these really  _ speak _ to him (Christ, phrasing it like that makes him feel sick). If he were looking for something that would just do, any of these would be fine. 

But it can’t just do. It needs to be perfect.

“How ‘bout this one?” Storm asks, holding another one up.

“Short scale. My hands are too big.”

She rolls her eyes as she puts it back where it was hanging.

“ _ Ooh, look at me, I’m Bobby and my hands are too big for a short scale, _ ” she mocks, like a jealous person who’s jealous that she doesn’t have bigger hands.

“Not my fault you have baby hands.”

“Get fucked.”

“Get grown.”

She bumps him with her shoulder as she moves to the guitars behind him.

“Okay, what about...this one?”

“I like it! But sadly, I don’t know how to play a seven string.”

She counts the strings herself to be sure.

“Oh. Right.”

She points at a near identical one right next to it.

“Then how ‘bout this one?”

“Nope. Eight.”

“ _ Eight?” _

“Eight.”

She counts the strings on this one, too. Then she counts again _ just  _ to be sure. There are, in fact, eight entire strings on this guitar. 

“ _ Who the fuck needs eight strings?”  _ she grumbles under her breath, putting the eight-stringed monstrosity back in its place.

They continue going through a seemingly endless cycle of picking a guitar, testing it out, being displeased with the results and putting it back. The more they repeat the process, the more haggard and hopeless they grow, patience wearing thin the longer they test guitars.

Nicky saunters over, his own stress evident by the knot in his brow that he tries to hide as he casually approaches the two of them.

“Yikes,” he says, seeing the life being sucked out of them in real time. "Shopping going that bad?”

“Try  _ literal fucking nightmare, _ ” Storm groans. “We’ve tried everything.”

“ _ Everything? _ ”

They nod their heads glumly.

“... _ Even shark guitar _ ?”

“ _ Yes,  _ Nicky, even shark guitar.”

Well, that’s no good. Shark guitar usually  _ kills _ .

He scratches his head, looking conflicted from Bobby and Storm’s downtrodden faces, to shark guitar, then to the back room behind the register.

“Gimme a second,” he says, disappearing into the back for a few minutes before emerging with a new, never before seen guitar. It's smooth and svelte, a dreamy purple that Bobby can see himself in, his own awestruck face reflected in the glossy finish.

A diamond in the rough.

“Whoa,” Storm says. “Where was this one hiding?”

“Stock on these is limited, so we keep them in the back. It’s one of our more pricey ones, so they hardly sell anyhow.”

_ Ugh.  _ Pricey was  _ not  _ what Bobby was going for, but at this point he’ll take what he can get. It’s already ticking all the right boxes as far as what he wants looks-wise, so he’s hopeful for the actual feel and sound.

His apprehension about the price goes out the window as soon as Nicky places the guitar in his hands. It feels like it was constructed specifically for him, like he knows all the contours and edges by heart already. He gives it an experimental strum and finds that by some divine miracle it’s already perfectly in tune.

“Maybe this one will make you play like Prince,” Storm says, the sleek purple reminiscent of the rock legend Bobby’s looked up to his whole life.

“Yeah,” he replies, lost in the feel of the smoothly sanded wooden neck. “Like Prince.”

“WelI, I can’t promise you’ll be on Prince’s level,” Nicky interjects. “But I  _ can  _ guarantee you’ll love it. I’ll be at the register if you need anything else.”

Nicky leaves them so they can make their way to the corner with the practice amps so they can properly test out the new gear.

Bobby takes a seat on the spinning stool in the corner with the new guitar in his lap. He plugs it into the nearest test amp, turning the knobs on the body until the tone is perfect. Storm sits in the stool opposite him, adjusting the height on her seat until her feet barely touch the ground.

“Play me something,” she says, swinging her legs back and forth. 

“Like what?”

“Hmm…” 

She spins around in her seat, contemplating carefully. 

“Oh!” she exclaims as she spins to a stop. “Can you do ‘Kiss It Better’?”

The Rihanna song? Sure, it shouldn’t be difficult.

He taps his foot to keep time, counting off, “ _ 2, 3, 4 _ ,” before playing the main riff from the song on a steady seamless loop.

Storm nods her head along to the music, giving Bobby a small smile when he glances up from his guitar to gauge her reaction. 

The warm smile on her face puts him at ease. 

The mischievous glint in her eyes, however, makes him fear for his life. 

And his ears. Mostly his ears. 

“Storm, I swear if you start singing -”

Oh god no, it’s too late. She’s singing now and somehow it’s worse than he remembered. He’s almost offended on Rihanna’s behalf. 

The only other person in the shop, the balding Rolling Stones fan from earlier, looks up in disgust when he hears her sing. He doesn’t even bother looking through the vinyls anymore, having had enough of their shit for one day. He promptly shuffles over to the register without even bothering to look at what he has in hand so Nicky (who is trying his best to conceal his giggles) can ring him up and he can get out of there as quick as he can. 

Bobby mutes the strings with his palm, the music ceasing instantaneously along with Storm’s singing. 

“Aw, why’d you stop playing?” she asks, pouting and innocently batting her eyelashes like she didn’t just obliterate the ears of everyone within a ten foot radius.

“That voice should be classified as a weapon of mass destruction.”

“Takin’ it as a compliment!” she exclaims as she does a 180 in her seat, rotating so she can scan the wall behind her holding the basses, inspecting each hanging guitar until her eyes fall on one she likes. 

“Hold that thought,” she says, getting up so she can grab the bass she was eyeing. Nothing particularly fancy, just a simple hot pink. She goes back to her seat with the guitar, twisting the pegs and plucking each string until it’s properly tuned.

“Okay,” she says as she plugs it into the amp next to her. “ _Now_ play ‘Kiss It Better’.”

Bobby looks warily at her as she drums her thumb impatiently against the pickup, waiting for him to start. Once again he taps his foot in time as he mentally counts off,  _ “2, 3, 4,”  _ before he plays the same riff as before. 

Storm studies his movements for a couple beats, matching his foot tapping with her own before joining in with a complementary bassline, low and soothing, working in tandem with his simple guitar riff.

The thing about simple guitar riffs, though, is they get boring after awhile. 

After they've built up a good enough rhythm with one another, Bobby decides to embellish a little, have some fun with the riff and add a couple notes where it fits while she continues to go along with the bassline she’s established.

What he didn’t expect was for her to start going off-script too. 

If he adds one note she adds three, incorporating all types of flashy tricks and techniques to jazz up her style. Before he knows it, the bassline is more complex than the guitar riff. 

_ That can’t be right. _

It’s the guitarist that can get away with adding whatever they want. The bassist is the one who has to remain constant to keep the song from falling apart. But here she is, doing whatever the hell she wants with two fewer strings than him and doing it...dare he say... _ better than him? _

It’s downright sacrilegious. 

She recognizes this, the corners of her lips quirking up as she looks up at him from her guitar, silently challenging him to outshine her. 

_ I dare you,  _ she seems to say.

As if he’d ever let a  _ bassist  _ upstage him.  _ Especially _ in front of an audience of exactly no one. His god complex from being lead singer won’t allow it. 

_ If it’s a challenge she wants... _

He picks up the tempo – gradually so as not to upset the overall mood but enough to light a fire under her and encourage her to do the same – adding a couple licks and arpeggiating chords to keep her on her toes. 

His pick gives him a slight advantage on speed, but she still manages to keep up well just using her fingers even as the tempo gets progressively faster. 

He’s waiting. He’s watching and waiting for her to slip up and revert back but she never does and he’s surprised to find he’s happy she doesn’t.

There’s something thrilling about this game of musical cat-and-mouse, both saying with their instruments “catch me if you can” on an endless melodic circuit.

They ad lib and improvise until the outcome is so different from how they started you’d never guess it wasn’t an original, bouncing off of one another in an unwavering synchronicity that’s all too natural to even feel like an impromptu jam session.

It’s a dance with two leads, an infinite battle to the death with two tireless opponents and no indication there could ever be a winner.

If she slaps, he slides, if she bends, he sweeps, every movement experimental while staying crisp and precise.

The music crescendos and the volume builds, pulsating loudly in both of their ears, getting faster, ever faster, before it reaches its apex and quickly crashes down to a decisive, sharp finish that leaves them both panting, shaking out their sore wrists and flexing their numb fingers as they catch their breath, sweat-dewed faces flushed and grinning. 

Bobby looks down in admiration at the guitar in his hands, beaming at it as if it were made of solid gold. 

“This one’s a winner for sure.”

“We should definitely make more music together,” Storm says as she makes her way to the register with Bobby, protectively clutching the guitar. 

“You think so?”

“Of course I think so! We sounded amazing. We have to do it again some time.”

Nicky, who was reading his magazine the whole time, looks up as they approach.

"Verdict?” he asks. 

“It’s perfect," Bobby answers. 

“See? Told you you’d love it,” he says. “I’ll get you set up with a case so I can ring you up.”

He leaves to get the case at the far end of the shop, leaving Bobby and Storm to wait at the register.

“Come over to my place tomorrow night,” Storm says, leaning her hip against the counter.

_ Tomorrow? _

“That’s a little soon, isn’t it?”

“Better soon than never, right? I'll send you my address and you can come over whatever time works for you.”

Nicky returns with the appropriate case and sets everything up so Bobby can finally pay and leave, his wallet already in shambles before he’s even been told the price. He tells himself the guitar is worth it. He repeats it as often as he needs to soften the financial blow he’s sure to feel come tomorrow morning.

Seb steps out of the back room, walking up to Nicky with a confident bounce in his step that makes Nicky square his shoulders.

“So you’ve decided to talk things out after all, huh?” he asks, raising his eyebrows as Seb walks nearer.

He nods in response. “Lottie really put things in perspective for me,” he says, Lottie leaning against the doorframe to the back room holding the album she was promised and watching the scene play out in front of her.

“Yeah?” Nicky says, standing up straighter.

“Yeah. Now I realize this  _ wasn’t _ a friendly rivalry all along.”

Nicky relaxes his shoulders and waits for Seb to continue speaking.

“It was just a rivalry. Point blank.”

“... _ What? _ ”

“Yeah. I don’t like you.”

Nicky laughs incredulously, shaking his head. 

_ The nerve of this motherfucker. _

“ _ Excuse me? _ ” Nicky utters, looking equal parts amused and perplexed. 

“You’re my competition,” Seb continues. “The reason it’s so hard to be around you is because I can’t stand you.”

“You and I both know that’s  _ not _ what’s going on here.” 

“Then what’s going on, Nicky? I can't be around you because I can’t stand you. Simple as that.”

“Oh my god, can you _please_ stop lying to yourself for _one second?_ ”

“Stop lying about what?”

“Stop lying about the fact that you clearly have feelings for me!”

" _I_ have feelings for _you_?” Seb scoffs. “Go fuck yourself.”

“ _ Fuck me yourself, coward! _ ”

...Radio fucking silence. 

Nobody dares say anything else, frozen in their spots for fear that one sudden movement could cause everything to violently topple over. 

The only movement comes from Seb. 

The slightest flicker of something on his face that’s near imperceptible. 

Anger. Confusion. Frustration.

... _ Lust?  _

“...D’you wanna settle this in the back?” he says, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his handsome features.

Nicky gives him an identical look, relieved that after years of pretending and repression, blunt directness is what finally paid off.

The next instant the guys are shooing Storm, Lottie, and Bobby out of the front door, muttering varied excuses as to why they have to close shop early that get lost in the wind as they give them their umbrellas back and shove the guitar case in Bobby's arms.

“My _ hair! _ ” Storm cries, scrambling to put her hood up as they’re tossed out. “ _ Dickhead!”  _

“What about the guitar?” Bobby asks.

“Keep it!” Nicky calls, hastily waving them away. “It’s on the house for all I care, just get outta here!”

He shuts the door in their faces, the sound of keys hastily jangling in the lock intermingling with the bell above the door ringing wildly from the force.

... _ I got a free guitar because some guy was too horny to make me pay for it. Huh. _

The last any of them see of either of the guys is Seb’s hand reaching out to flip the sign to “closed”.

Lottie, looking entirely too pleased with herself, is the first and only one to speak up, turning to Bobby with the fattest, smuggest grin he's ever seen on her. 

“ _Didn’t I fucking tell you!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> okay this is long overdue but yall !! she plays bass hit 1k reads! 🥳 aaaahh!! thank you thank you thank you so much❣ it’s like…literally SO crazy to me that there are people out there that actually like a thing i made 🥺 from the bottom of my heart thank you so much to everyone who’s read/left kudos/commented it means so much to me yall dont even know 🥰  
>   
> hope yall enjoyed this one !! might’ve went a lil ooc with seb/nicky bc i haven’t played s3 in weeks and i have literally no perception of either of their personalities outside of “unavailable” and “likes music” but we are going to ignore that 😌  
>   
> anyway im really excited for chapter seven lol I’ve literally been looking forward to it since i started writing this and i can’t wait to post it :) hopefully it’ll be up soon 💕  
>   
> …also [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7eKPB0QvpI) is def what storm sounded like singing kiss it better idc idc  
> 


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